


But She's A Forest Fire

by Shippershape



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, But there WILL BE some Jonerys, Did I say slow burn?, F/M, Firefighter Jon, Friends to Lovers, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Jon and Sansa Are Not Related, Jonerys is a plot device in this, Past Sexual Abuse, Roommates, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2018-12-01 13:02:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 44,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11486946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shippershape/pseuds/Shippershape
Summary: She should go back to her flat, wash off her makeup and crawl into her bed. The mornings after one of these parties are the only times she can really sleep, so flattened by exhaustion that even the nightmares can’t penetrate the darkness.But she’s not going to bed. She’s going to Boston.- - -Or, the story where Jon needs a place to stay after a firefighting accident, and no one is more surprised than Sansa that she's the one to offer.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all!
> 
> This is my first foray into GoT fic, but these two are the reason I even started watching in the first place, and I can't get this idea out of my head. If there's interest in this story I'll continue it, so let me know what you think!

“Wait, he’s-what?” Sansa cradles her cellphone against her neck, walking carefully to the kitchen with her armload of groceries. “Robb, what did you say?”

“It’s Jon, Sans, he’s been in an accident.”

“An-” She startles, and a bag of apples slips from her grasp, hitting the floor with a thud and splitting open. She tries to wrap her mind around Robb’s words as she watches the apples roll unevenly across the hardwood. “What sort of accident? Is he alright?”

Jon’s brooding eyes flash in her memory, the sad boy, her sort-of brother, the one she’s never been particularly close to, never treated particularly kind. Her chest constricts slightly, arms tightening around the produce.

“I don’t know. I’m headed to the hospital now. I know you aren’t-” He trails off. “Mum and Dad are still in Manchester and-”

And the rest of their siblings are scattered across the country. Arya in Portland, Bran in Michigan, Rickon away with their parents.

“Which hospital?” She asks.

“Mass General. Sansa, you don’t have to-”

“I’ll be there.” She says firmly. “I’m on my way.”

She dumps her produce haphazardly in the fridge, leaving the rest of her groceries on the counter. She begins typing the website for an airline into her phone’s browser, then pauses. Factoring in security on both sides and taking a taxi out to the airport, it would probably be faster to drive. It’s already past nine, since she was stuck late at the office and had to hit up the market on the way home, and she doesn’t really care for late-night driving, but-

Robb needs her. Jon…she’s always gotten the sense that her coolness towards him is mutual, but he _is_ her brother. Sort of.

Mind made up, she rushes to her bedroom, grabbing the bag she always keeps packed in the back of her closet. This isn’t what she had in mind when she stashed it away with blood still under her fingernails, but she’s glad she has it. She throws in a couple extra sweaters and a pair of winter boots. It’s been a mild winter so far in New York, but she knows Boston has been colder, so she grabs a heavy coat and a scarf as well as she swipes her keys off the counter. With a last look around her apartment, the weight of what’s happened settles in her bones like ice. Her pace quickens as she makes her way to the elevator. By the time the doors open into the parkade she’s half running.

 _A lady doesn’t run_. Sansa hears her mother’s voice in her head. _She walks briskly, with purpose_.

After throwing her bag in the trunk of her silver Mercedes, she puts the hospital into her GPS.

 _Estimated trip duration: 4 hours 20 minutes_.

 

* * *

 

It takes her five and a half hours. The roads are icy and slick, and by the time she pulls into visitor parking outside the hospital Sansa has worked herself into a knot of guilt and worry.

-

For years she all but ignored Jon, resenting him when Ned brought him home, announcing that Jon’s mother, Ned’s brother’s ex-wife, Lyanna, had passed. Sansa was eight, and Jon was eleven, and all she really knew was that her mother smiled less and laughed rarely after the dark haired boy was moved into the basement. And Sansa, so like her mother in looks and manner, felt that she had to choose.

She never had to feel too badly about it, because Robb and Jon got along famously, and Arya all but worshipped him when Jon did all the boyish things with her that Robb excluded her from, things Sansa had no interest in. Sansa and Jon just…coexisted. She was distant, to avoid that disapproving look from her mother, and Jon caught on quickly, keeping mostly away from the pair of them.

But the road is dark and deserted in the middle of the night, and Sansa has nothing but her thoughts to occupy her as the highway blurs beneath her.

She remembers the Christmases that she either got Jon meaningless gifts or no gift at all. She remembers her thirteenth birthday party, when Robin called him a bastard, remembers laughing along with the rest of her friends, and the flash of hurt on his face.

She remembers the time Jon picked her up from a keg party, after she’d been too afraid to call Robb, and that he’s kept that secret all these years.

 

* * *

 

Her fingers are numb as she punches at the parking kiosk, from the cold, and from hours of gripping the steering wheel. Once the ticket has printed, she calls Robb, walking back to her car to stick the slip on top her dashboard.

“Hello?”

“It’s me,” she mumbles, lips already clumsy in the frigid Boston air. “I’m here. I’m outside the main entrance.”

“Alright,” her brother sounds exhausted, though she’s unsurprised that he wasn’t asleep.“I’ll come out to meet you.”

She drifts toward the doors, rubbing absently at her chest. It doesn’t take long for Robb to appear, and she throws her arms around him, breathing in his familiar scent. No matter where he goes, Robb always smells like home. He hugs her so tightly it lifts her off the ground, the air rushing from her lungs, and she squeaks.

“Sorry.” He sets her back down. “It’s been a long night.”

There are dark circles under his eyes, stubble across his chin. He looks unkempt in a way he rarely does, and she bites her lip.

“Is he…” she trails off. “What’s happened?”

He grabs her hand, tugging her inside. Sansa hadn’t realized how cold she was until the blast of warm air hits her, and she shivers as Robb leads her through the halls.

“He was on a call and they didn’t pull out fast enough…I don’t know much more than that. His squad was called out again few hours ago but I think they’ll come back, we can ask them when they do.”

“Is it-” she digs her heels in, suddenly nervous. “Is it bad?”

He turns to look at her, sighing.

“He’s in surgery, still. I think…yeah. I think it’s pretty bad.”

Her grip on his hand tightens, and they resume their path to wherever they’re headed. They round a corner to a waiting room filled with chairs and couches, and she spots Robb’s coat draped across one of them. He sinks into it, tugging her down into the chair next to his.

“I’m sorry.” She says. Jon is his brother, in a way he has never been Sansa’s, and his best friend.

He forces a smile.

“I’m glad you’re here. You didn’t have to come.”

“Of course I did,” she says, crossing her ankles. “Have you called Dad? Arya?”

He drops her hand, scrubbing his own wearily across his face.

“Yeah, Dad didn’t answer so I left him a voicemail. Arya’s in the middle of finals, I didn’t want to call until…” he gestures vaguely. “Until I knew more.”

She hums thoughtfully.

“And how are you holding up?”

“I’m alright.” He reaches over to ruffle her hair. He doesn’t ask how she is.

“How long have you been here?”

“I dunno,” he glances at his watch. “Since about eight.”

A gurney rolls past, the woman on it letting out a scream that startles Sansa into a jump. When she turns back to Robb, she sees him stifle a yawn.

“You should get some sleep.”

“I’m not leaving-” he begins heatedly, and she holds up a hand.

“I’m not saying you should leave, just try and sleep a little.” Her voice is firm. “I’ll wake you the second there’s news, I promise.”

He eyes her thoughtfully for a moment, then nods.

“The _second_ someone comes out-”

“You have my word,” she says, giving him a tired smile. He reaches out to give her arm a squeeze, then leans back in his chair, closing his eyes. It barely takes five minutes before he’s snoring softly, and Sansa tugs his jacket off the back of his chair to drape it over his chest.

Thoughts of Jon begin to drift in again, without Robb to distract her, and she pulls out her phone. She sends a few quick e-mails, to her boss and the vendors she was scheduled to meet with this week, letting them know there’s been a family emergency. Sleep pulls at her eyes, too, but she pushes it away, distracting herself with work as minutes turn to hours.

 

* * *

 

 

Just before four her phone gives a little beep, flashing a low battery warning.

“Oh,” she groans, realizing she forgot to pack a charger. Her half-formed thought to dig around the waiting room to see if anyone’s left one behind is interrupted by what sounds like an army marching heavily through the corridor. She looks up to see half a dozen filthy men flooding into the waiting area, still in their yellow firefighting gear. She jumps to her feet, and a few of them look at her in surprise.

“Are you here to see Jon?” She asks, another wave of guilt rolling through her as she fails to recognize any of them. She’s never met the men from Jon’s firehouse, doesn’t even know their names. One of them, a wild looking man with a bush of a beard that she suspects might be red under all the soot, nods his head.

“Aye. And you are?” His voice is thick with an accent she doesn’t recognize.

She doesn’t get a chance to answer, as another fireman comes striding into the room, stopping short when he sees her.

“Sansa?”

“Theon.” She loosens a little at the relief of finding a familiar face. Even if it is Theon’s. “What happened?”

He turns to the other men, gesturing at her.

“This is Robb’s sister, Sansa.”

They mutter a greeting.

“We were on a call and the Chief said to pull out but Jon…he was sure he heard someone calling. He wouldn’t leave. And when the ceiling started to cave in…”

Someone else pipes up, a blonde man with a slash across his forehead that’s still seems to be bleeding.

“He got buried, the stubborn fuck.”

Sansa’s hands curl into fists.

“That sounds…” she says weakly.

“It’s not good.” The wild one says. “Sansa, was it?” She nods. “I’m Tormund. And these here are Ben, Greg, Aaron, Jamie and Edd.”

She forces a smile in response, then turns to Theon.

“You should probably wake Robb,” she says quietly. “He’ll want to know.”

Theon nods, walking over to her brother and shaking him by the shoulders. One of the men, Aaron, she thinks, clears his throat.

“So you’re Jon’s sister?”

She shifts uncomfortably on her feet.

“In a way.” She used to say it to put distance between them. Now it would just feel like a false claim, one she doesn’t deserve. “I’m Robb’s sister.”

“It’s the same, isn’t it?” Tormund says curiously. “If your brother is Jon’s too?”

It should be, she thinks. Instead she shrugs.

“We’ve never been as close as he and Robb.”

That seems to answer some unspoken question among the group, a look of understanding settling on the faces of most of them.

“So, no word?” Aaron asks. Sansa shakes her head. But no sooner has she opened her mouth to respond then a doctor pushes through the double doors, spotting the uniforms and making his way over.

“Family of Jon Snow?” He asks, and Sansa tries not to stare at the spatters of blood on his scrubs.

“Yes,” she says, because Robb is still talking to Theon. “I’m his sister.”

It feels like a lie, but this is not the time for clarification.

“He’s going to be alright.” She lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, and hears the crowd behind her do the same. “He has some serious injuries, and the recovery will be a process, but he’s going to pull through.”

“He’s out of surgery?” She asks, feeling an arm around her shoulder and glancing up to see Robb there.

“He is, but it will be a while before you can see him. I’d recommend you go home, get some rest…” his eyes drift over to the firemen, still covered in soot and sweat. “Maybe take a shower.”

The men grumble, but Sansa can’t help but agree. The filthy group look out of place against the sterility of the institution around them. A few of them begin to leave, but Tormund stays.

Sansa steps closer to the doctor, full of questions.

“You said he has serious injuries,” she begins. “What are they?”

Robb tenses beside her.

“He has some third degree burns, though those are quite small, considering. He also has two broken ribs, a concussion, and a punctured lung.”

“Is that all?” She murmurs drily, feeling a little lightheaded.

He smiles sympathetically.

“It sounds like a lot, and it is, but your brother was extraordinarily lucky. He’ll have some scars, but with the proper rehabilitation he could come out of this with no permanent damage.”

And that, Sansa realizes, is probably no small miracle.

“How long do you think it will be before we can see him?” Robb asks.

The doctor glances at his watch, frowning.

“He’s going to be in a good bit of pain when he wakes up, so the nurses have given him some strong pain meds. Coupled with the anesthesia…he probably won’t be awake for two hours or so.” 

“Alright.” She looks up at the clock on the wall, her phone having died completely. It’s almost four thirty in the morning.

“Once they’ve gotten him settled in PACU the two of you should be alright to go in. He’ll be asleep, but as long as you’re quiet you’re welcome to wait in his room. The rest of your group will have to hold out a bit longer.”

“Thank you.” Robb reaches out, grasping his hand. The doctor smiles back, returning the shake.

“You’re very welcome. A nurse will come let you know when you can go in.”

He claps Robb on the back before disappearing back behind the doors. For a moment, Robb just stares after him.

“Robb,” Sansa says gently, and he blinks, turning toward her. “Did you want to go home, have a shower?”

He shakes his head.

“I want to be here.”

She sighs, but it’s no more than she expected.

“Alright. I need to call Dad and Arya. And Bran.” She adds as an afterthought. “But I forgot to bring a charger, I’ll have to run out and get one.”

He nods absently.

“Alright.”

“Do you need anything?”

For a moment, he looks like he might laugh. It strikes her again how much different this is for him. She flashes back to the night Bran had his accident, how she could barely string a sentence together, and feels that now familiar burn of guilt as she recognizes how different that was. It’s no different for Robb, but for her…

“Nah. ‘m fine.” He leans down, pressing a kiss to her forehead. He’s not, but there’s nothing she can do about that, aside from be here.

“Okay. I’ll be back soon.”

When she gets to her car, and pulls her keys from her purse, she notices for the first time that her hands are trembling.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it seems like there's some interest in this story? Thank you for all the encouragement :) Keep the feedback coming, your thoughts help me choose what direction/tone to go with for the story so it's really important. Plus it helps keep me motivated! 
> 
> xx

It doesn’t take long to find a Wal-Mart, and she runs in, grabbing two phone chargers before making her way to the register. Robb might need one as well. On the way back to the hospital Sansa hits a drive-thru, picking up some breakfast and coffee.

Robb’s still in the waiting room when she makes it back, thrusting a breakfast sandwich and a coffee into his hands. He blinks down at them, as though he’s forgotten what food is entirely.

“They haven’t come out yet?” She asks, knowing the answer. If they had, Robb would be with Jon now.

“No.” He sips slowly at the coffee, then sighs. “Thanks for this.”

“Of course,” she says, leaning over to plug the charger into the wall. When she holds the second one out to him, he smiles.

“You really do think of everything.”

“Well, I figure if Mum can’t get ahold of either of us it will only incite a panic.” She tells him, exhaling when her phone turns back on.

Arya doesn’t answer, so Sansa leaves her a message, making sure to lead with the fact that Jon’s alright. Bran doesn’t answer either, and it’s likely that neither of them are even awake, so she leaves him the same message. Before she can make the third call, to her parents, Robb’s phone rings.

“It’s Dad,” he mutters, holding it to his ear. “Hello? Yeah, he’s alright. He’ll be hurting for a while but, he’ll live.”

As her brother tries to calm their father down, a nurse in blue scrubs appears, glancing around the room before making her way over.

“Are you the family of Jon Snow?”

“We are,” Sansa says.

“You can see him now. He’s still asleep, but I can show you where his room is.”

She gets to her feet, pulling the charger from the wall, and glances at Robb, who’s still on the phone. He covers the mouth piece with his hand.

“Go find out where he is, then come back and get me. I’ll be finished in a minute.”

She nods, then turns to follow the other woman.

“He’s in the post-anesthesia care unit,” the nurse says. Sansa licks her lips.

“Oh, I was wondering what PACU stood for.”

The nurse, a brunette somewhere around her mother’s age whose nametag reads Amanda, smiles at her.

“He’ll be moved, when he’s a little more awake and we’re sure he hasn’t had any strange reactions to the anesthesia. So you’re his sister?”

“Um,” Sansa hesitates. “We were raised together. We’re…foster siblings.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” Amanda leads her around a last corner, and pushes open a door. They step through, into a private room, and when Sansa sees him, she stops dead.

She hadn’t thought about this, hadn’t considered the state he’d be in. He was alive, and he’d be alright, and so in her naiveté she imagined him unharmed.

But _of course_ he wasn’t.

Half his face is covered in an ugly bruise, small lacerations decorating the rest of it, and what looks to be a much deeper cut running vertically down through his eyebrow, over his eye and cheek. One arm is wrapped in gauze from the elbow down, and the other looks to be in much the same state as his face.

She stumbles a little, grasping for purchase at the end of his bed.

He looks _awful_. And as much distance as she’s put between them, as hard as she’s worked to separate Jon from the rest of her brothers, Sansa feels as though her chest might collapse just from looking at him.

He’s _Jon_.

And Sansa, selfish, stupid Sansa, is shocked at how very much she cares.

“Are you alright?” Nurse Amanda is beside her in an instant, tiny hands strong against her back.

“Yes,” Sansa straightens weakly. “I’m sorry, I just…I didn’t think to prepare myself.”

“Oh,” Amanda’s lips twist sadly. “Hon, I’m sorry. I thought maybe the doctor had told you.”

“He did.” She can’t take her eyes off Jon, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the matting of his dark curls across his forehead. “I suppose I didn’t realize it would look so bad.” She laughs. “Which is ridiculous. He’s had a building fall on him.”

Amanda looks a little alarmed, like she might be concerned that Sansa’s about to sink into hysterics, but Sansa just shakes her head, collecting herself.

“So he…” she tries to remember what time it is. “He should wake up in an hour or so?”

“Anytime now, really.” Amanda says, surprising her. “We like to be conservative with our timelines, so folks don’t get so nervous when it takes a little longer. But Mr. Snow could wake up anytime between now and an hour from now.”

He doesn’t _look_ like he’s about to wake up. He doesn’t even look like Jon.

Biting her lip, Sansa turns back to the nurse.

“Thank you. I should go get my brother, he’ll want to see Jon.”

Amanda nods, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze before following Sansa out into the hallway and then disappearing in the other direction.

Sansa finds Robb already on his feet, jacket in hand.

“How’s Dad? Are they flying back?” She asks, looping her arm through his as she leads him toward Jon’s room.

“He’s alright, worried, obviously. They’re going to try and get the first flight they can, but you know how it is this time of year.”

She does. The weather makes for a bundle of delays, especially on overseas flights.

“You saw him?” Robb asks, and she can feel his eyes on the side of her face. If he feels her tense, he doesn’t say anything.

“Yes, he’s still asleep. He looks…” she struggles for the words to warn her brother without frightening him. “He looks a little rough.”

He takes a deep breath, and she squeezes his arm a little more tightly with hers.

“Jon’s tough, you know him. I think it probably looks worse than it is.” She says, unsure who she’s trying to reassure.

“Yeah.” Robb mumbles, sounding very far away. When they come to his door, Sansa pulls her brother through, arms still linked. She knows the moment he catches sight of Jon, feels his every muscle coil beside her. “Fuck.”

“I know,” she says, because she does. “But remember what the doctor said, he’s going to be fine.”

“Jesus, Sans. He looks…”

“He’s looked better,” she agrees, trying to lighten the mood. Robb chokes on a laugh, but it’s something. “The nurse said he could wake up any time now.”

Robb makes a dubious noise. They both jump when her phone rings.

“Shit,” she scrambles for it in her bag. “Sorry, I’m going to take this outside.”

It’s Arya. Sansa fills her in, assures her of Jon’s recovery. When she makes her way back inside his room, Robb is hunched on a chair in the corner.

“It was Arya. She’s going to come as soon as she can.”

He nods. When he looks up at her, with blue eyes matching her own, she sees the fear in them.

“He’s going to be _fine_ , Robb.” She murmurs, sinking into a chair beside him.

“But what do we do now?” He asks, voice rough with exhaustion and emotion. She gazes over at the man on the bed, who’s always been quiet and still as she’s known him, but never so quiet as this.

“Now we wait.”

* * *

When she wakes, it’s with a start, the unfamiliar light and noises of the hospital around her. She blinks, as the long night comes back to her, and frowns when she sees Jon, still asleep. Robb glances over at her, awake.

“He hasn’t woken up yet?” She asks quietly, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Robb shakes his head. “What time is it?”

“Just six,” he replies, no sleep in his voice.

“Did you sleep at all?”

His stare is answer enough.

“They did say they don’t know how long it would be. I don’t think it’s any reason to worry.” He’ll worry anyway, but she feels the need to say it.

His only answer is a shrug.

Something occurs to her, so suddenly she can’t help the _oh_ of realization as it whooshes from her throat.

“What?” Robb frowns at her.

“What about Ghost? Is anyone with him?” She wonders, thinking of Jon’s great white Husky, all alone in the apartment he shares with Robb. Her brother slaps a hand to his forehead.

“Shit. No, I forgot about Ghost.” He groans. “He’s going to need a walk, and some food. And he’s so bloody bonded to Jon, he’ll be anxious. He always knows when something’s wrong.”

Robb glances at Jon, frustrated.

“I could just wait until he wakes up, but-”

“I’ll go.”

He blinks at her.

“We don’t know, it could be another few hours until Jon wakes up, and he probably hasn’t been home since before shift yesterday. It’s not fair to leave Ghost cooped up like that.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” she says, decided. “I don’t mind. Is there anything you want from the apartment?”

“Ah, a fresh shirt maybe,” he says. She gets to her feet.

“Alright. If Jon wakes up-”

“I’ll call you.” He assures her, digging a gold key off the ring he’s pulled out of his pocket and handing it to her.

It’s the right thing, she tells herself, as she walks back to her car. She’s doing this for Jon, not to avoid him.

But while Sansa has grown to be unusually clever at manipulating everyone around her, she’s never been very good at lying to herself.

* * *

Sansa has only been to Robb’s apartment a handful of times. She’s never been a big fan of Boston, and while she misses her brother, the drive usually puts her off making the trip when she has a free weekend. But she remembers where it is well enough. There’s no elevator, and she’s huffing by the time she makes it to the seventh floor, where the boys live. What kind of an apartment building doesn’t have an elevator?

It occurs to her briefly, as she slides the key into the lock, that Ghost might not recognize her. He was just a pup when Jon was still living at home, and it’s not as though they’ve spent much time together since he and Robb have moved to Boston.

Before she has much chance to worry about it, she swings the door open, and is nearly knocked off her feet by a wall of white fur.

“Ghost!” She shouts, scrambling to her feet. “Shh, down boy.”

The Husky immediately retreats a step, staring up at her with eyes that are entirely too human for an animal. Too sad, she thinks, for a dog.

“Alright,” she says softly, letting her hand drift down to stroke behind his ears. “It’s alright. Now where’s your food, hmm?”

Immediately, Ghost turns, padding over to a pantry door in the corner of the kitchen. Sansa follows, opening the door to find a bag of dog food on the bottom shelf.

“Clever boy,” she coos, finding a scoop in the bag and dumping a few of those into the dish on the floor. Ghost all but pounces on it, and she feels a twinge of sympathy for the animal. Robb was right. It seems impossible, but she can’t help but get the sense that Jon’s pet seems upset in a way that surpasses a night of neglect. While he’s occupied Sansa drifts around the apartment. It’s unmistakably a bachelor bad, which amuses her. It’s always seemed small, for two men and a dog, but most places do when she compares them to the lavish loft she owns in New York. Robb laughed when he helped her move in, calling her a princess.

It’s not that he couldn’t afford a similar place of his own, but he cares less about luxury, always has.

While she’s there, Sansa grabs Robb a clean shirt, and a few other things, digging in his closet for a duffel bag to pack them in. When she walks into Jon’s room, Ghost appears. He doesn’t seem territorial so much as curious, watching her take in the décor with almost startlingly intelligent eyes.

“So much black,” she muses to herself. He’s consistent, at least. “Should we go for a walk?” She asks, turning back to Ghost. Surely there’s a leash around her somewhere. He disappears again, returning with a black leash in his mouth. “You really are clever, aren’t you?” She says, bending down to clip it into his collar. As she drops the duffel bag at the front door, thinking she’ll pick it up when she brings Ghost back, she eyes the thick parkas hanging on the wall.

It’s colder than she’s dressed for, and even in the car she’s not sure she’s brought a jacket warm enough. She hadn’t been planning on spending much time outside on this trip. After a moment’s hesitation, she pulls a black parka off the hook, slipping it on. It’s huge on her, but it’s warm, and it smells surprisingly good, like fresh snow and a woodsy cologne that doesn’t seem at all like Robb.

* * *

She gets the call when they’re almost back to the apartment, about an hour after they’d left.

“Robb?”

“Hey. Just wanted to let you know he’s awake.”

“Oh.” She pauses, and Ghost comes to a complete stop, staring up at her. “Is he…how’s he seem?”

“A little groggy, but he seems good. How was Ghost?”

“He’s fine. I think…he knows. That something’s happened to Jon. I’ll drop him off and head back to the hospital.”

“Alright. See you soon.”

“Bye.” She hangs up, staring down at the white dog in front of her, almost disappearing into the snow that’s begun to fall since they first stepped out. “He’s fine, you know. Jon is alright.”

 _Silly_ , she thinks, _speaking to a dog like that_.

But he just dips his head, as if in understanding, and resumes his path back toward the apartment without any prompting from her.

 _Strange_.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hurrah for some actual Jon/Sansa interaction! Thank you so much for the feedback, please keep it up :) side note, updates might be a little slower this week since I'm super busy at work and also broke a tooth so have to schedule time for that :S

It’s ridiculous, Sansa knows, to be nervous.

But there’s no mistaking the knots in her stomach as she winds through the hospital back toward Jon’s room for anything other than nerves.

 _He’ll be happy to see you_ , she tells herself.

But in her heart, she knows better. She’s not the sister he’ll want to see. She’s last on the list of Starks he’d expect to visit, she thinks, perhaps save for her mother.

She expects to see Robb when she rounds the corner into Jon’s room, but the room’s empty, except for the patient.

At the sound of her boots on the laminate, he looks up, and for a moment, she thinks he doesn’t recognize her.

“Sansa?” His voice is just a scratch, even rougher than it usually is. She smiles, despite the flipping sensation in her gut. He stares back, confused.

“Yes, it’s me. How are you feeling?” She sets the bag she brought down on one of the empty chairs, moving quietly toward the bed.

“I’m…” he winces. “Fine.”

“Liar,” she says, and the corners of his mouth twitch, ever so slightly. “You’ve had half a building fall on you.” The smile’s gone as quick as it came, and his eyes are a little unfocused as they settle on her.

“What are you doing here?” He asks. She frowns.

“You’ve had a building fall on you,” she repeats.

“I know, but-” _but I didn’t think you’d care_. _Not enough to leave New York._ The words are as clear as if he’d spoken them aloud. It hurts, all the more because she deserves it.

“Robb called, he said you’d been in an accident.” She tells him. “I wanted to make sure you were alright.” It was the worry in Robb’s voice that had summoned, but she doesn’t see any point in mentioning that.

“Oh.” He says, though it clearly makes no sense to him. Then his eyes narrow, drifting down her torso. “Are you wearing my jacket?”

She glances down, realizing she never changed back into her own.

“Oh, I suppose so. I needed something warmer to take Ghost out. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Ghost?”

“Your dog, Ghost,” she clarifies, though she can’t think of who else she’d mean.

“You took Ghost out?” He asks, surprise flashing across his face.

“Robb didn’t want to leave before you woke up,” she explains. “And I thought…is that alright? Would you have preferred I let Robb do it?”

“No.” He seems to be struggling to keep up. He shakes his head, then winces. “It’s fine I just…I’m surprised. He doesn’t take well to-” Jon cuts himself off abruptly.

Strangers. That’s what he was going to say.

“He must have remembered me.” She says, smarting a little. It’s not that she hasn’t earned the title, but they’re usually more careful about this distance between them.

“Mmm.”

“Are in you a lot of pain?”

His eyebrows go up, and she finds herself surprised at the question as well. But he’s holding himself so tightly that she can see the veins in the one forearm that’s not covered in bandages, and she has to suppress the urge to touch him. It looks as though there’s not much left of him unharmed to touch. She remembers that feeling. When the iron under her skin and the layers of clothing over it weren’t enough to keep the bruises from aching anytime anyone touched her.

“It’s not bad.”

“Jon,” she says, and the word comes out so softly that she wonders if he even hears it.

“Hey.” They both start at the sound of Robb’s voice, and Sansa whirls around.

“Hey.” She kisses her brother’s cheek. “There’s a shirt in the bag,” she points, “-I also got your toothbrush, and a sweater,” she says, now to Jon. “I don’t think you’re allowed pajamas, but I can go back and get you some if-”

“Sansa,” Jon cuts her off. “Thank you.”

She nods, eyes darting away.

“I passed Tormund and Theon on the way back from the cafeteria,” Robb says, handing Sansa a coffee. “They’re on their way up.”

As though summoned by their names, the pair of firefighters appear, Tormund all but bellowing Jon’s name as he strides to the bed.

“You gave us a fucking fright, Jon Snow.”

Jon smiles painfully.

“You’re just pissed that you’re on your own for candidate training now,” he shoots back, and the redheaded man laughs.

A few minutes later, nurse Amanda appears, face pinched.

“I’m afraid there can only be three visitors at a time.” She tells them, eyeing Tormund disapprovingly. Theon moves to get to his feet, but Sansa drops a hand to his shoulder.

“It’s alright, I’ll go. I should check in with work anyway.” She leans down to drop a kiss, feather light, on the less bruised side of Jon’s face. When she pulls away his eyes are wide, and even Robb looks a little surprised by the gesture. “Try not to bring the ceiling down, would you?” She asks, raising an eyebrow at the group. “I’m not sure the rest of us are as resilient as you.”

Tormund snorts, and Robb grins back at her. Jon just rolls his eyes, though she thinks she feels them linger on her as she makes her way from the room.

 

* * *

 

There’s a revolving door of men from Jon’s firehouse all day, and Sansa keeps mostly away to allow him the time with his friends. He won’t miss her, she’s sure.

She spends most of the time corresponding with work, lugging her laptop from the trunk of her car to answer e-mails and check in with the venue for an upcoming event. Her assistant sends her a list of caterers and florists, and Sansa sends back a top three, telling her to go with whoever will match the budget she’s outlined. It’s dark by the time she looks up, and her neck aches from hunching over on the hard hospital chairs all day.

She yawns, tucking the laptop into her satchel as she heads back to Jon’s room. She braces herself for the ruckus of a rowdy group, but finds only Jon and Robb.

“No more firefighters?” She asks, dropping onto the seat across from her brother.

“Disappointed?” He asks, arching an auburn brow. She snorts, and both men grin at such an uncharacteristically unladylike sound.

“Terribly,” she agrees, stifling another yawn behind her hand. “You must be exhausted,” she says to Jon, leaning back in her chair. “Entertaining those oafs all day.”

He smiles, but she can see that she’s right.

“They’re not so bad. Well, Tormund, maybe,” he muses. “And you know how Theon is.”

She does. He’s been friends with Robb since before Jon arrived, but the three of them have been thick as thieves for years. Theon’s the troublemaker of the group, always pushing them to be bolder, more daring. It’s gotten them in more scrapes than either of her parents were comfortable with.

“Do you know how long you’ve got to stay?”

Jon moves, as if to shrug, then thinks better of it.

“They’ve said two weeks, maybe longer. Apparently it’s hard to say.”

He looks miserable at the thought.

“I should get my things checked into a hotel,” she says absently, picking at the seam on her jeans.

“Don’t be stupid,” Robb says, looking over at her. “You can stay at ours.”

“I don’t want to put you out,” she replies.

“Sansa.” He rolls his eyes. “It’s fine. You’ll stay in my room.”

“And where will you sleep?”

“Here.”

Jon makes a noise of protest.

“Robb, you don’t need to stay overnight. Besides, you need a shower.”

Sansa smirks, while Robb glares at his best friend.

“Fine, then I’ll stay in Jon’s room, it’s not like he’ll need it tonight.” He decides. Sansa presses her fingers against her closed eyelids, watching spots of light appear.

“Why don’t I just stay in Jon’s room?” She suggests. “There’s no sense in putting you out of your bed. That is, if you don’t mind,” she adds, glancing at Jon. He’s frowning at her, as though she’s a puzzle he can’t quite figure out.

“No,” he says after a moment. “Of course I don’t. Ghost might bother you though. He tries to sleep on the bed sometimes.”

Sansa shrugs.

“Well, at least I won’t be cold.”

He just stares back, that same, puzzled frown.

 

* * *

 

 

Sansa takes Ghost for another quick walk before bed, remembering the family dog they’d had when she was a child, and how they’d have to take him out at least twice a day before he’d sleep at night.

Robb is still at the hospital while she showers and changes into her pajamas, a silk set with long sleeves and delicate buttons. It’s probably the warmest pair she owns, since flannel always seemed too utilitarian for her taste. It occurs to her as she crawls between the sheets that she might have washed them first, but she’s too exhausted to care. The scent that clings to them, to everything in this room, is almost overwhelming, that same snow and woody musk that she first noticed in the parka.

It’s just Jon, she realizes, as her eyes adjust to the dark. And suddenly, inexplicably, her chest shakes with a sob. She doesn’t cry anymore, not since _him_ , not since _them_.

But she can’t get away from thoughts of Jon, always so kind, always so patient. Jon who never once questioned Sansa’s dismissal of him, who never used it against her.

Jon who was always a friend to Robb, a good brother to Arya, a good son to Ned.

Jon, who was so _good_ in a way Sansa both hated and feared she’d never be, almost gone in an instant.

She’s not sure how long passes like that, her face buried in the pillow, trying to muffle the sobs, when a latch clicks and the door to the bedroom swings open. She sobers immediately, a flush creeping up her neck as she wipes at her face with her sleeve.

“Robb?”

No one answers. But the bed dips suddenly, and the sound of heavy breathing fills her ears as something cold and wet presses against her cheek.

“Oh!” She reaches out brushing a hand across thick fur. “Ghost. You startled me.”

He curls up there beside her, and the knot in her chest eases a little. Laying back down beside him, Sansa sighs, eyes drifting shut.

“Clever boy,” she mumbles into his fur, his warmth finally lulling her off to sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

Her parents get in the next day, Rickon in tow. Sansa walks Ghost, filling his food and water bowl before heading back to the hospital to meet her family. Arya arrives a little after two, and she all but pounces on Jon. Ned looks shaken at the sight of his sort-of-nephew-turned-son, but Jon puts on a brave face. It doesn’t take long for the small room to begin to feel overfull, and Sansa ducks out often to get food, coffee, and to check in with the office.

The day seems to pass more quickly now that Jon’s awake, the moment of fear behind them. Ned and Catelyn disappear just after dinner to check into a hotel, and when Robb takes Rickon and Arya to get some supper, Sansa finds herself once again alone with Jon.

“I’m glad you’re alright,” she says, suddenly realizing she hasn’t yet said so. He smiles blearily. He’s never been one for attention.

“Mmm, well. Me too.”

“I’m sorry,” she adds, then her cheeks flame with embarrassment. They’ve gotten practiced in not acknowledging the way she treats him, and she feels foolish to bring it up now, but she can’t seem to help herself. His brows draw together in confusion.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“No, not for-” she gets to her feet, hovering uncomfortably beside his bed. “I mean, I _am_ sorry this happened to you, but I meant…before. I’m sorry for how I treated you. For how I’ve always treated you.”

“Sansa,” he looks a little alarmed. “You don’t have to-”

“I was awful to you, just admit it.”

Taken aback, he stares at her for a moment, then the side of his mouth tugs up in a smile.

“You were _occasionally_ awful.”

“Forgive me,” she says, more softly.

“There’s nothing to forgive-”

“Forgive me.” She says again, her voice sliding into that demanding tone the two of them are so much more familiar with.

His smile widens, and he sighs.

“Alright. Alright, you’re forgiven.”

The room falls back into silence, but it’s more comfortable than before.

“Ghost misses you.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“He told you that, did he?”

“Mmm,” she confirms, because he might as well have, for how bloody smart the animal is.

“Well, I’m glad the two of you are getting on.” He looks amused.

“You didn’t tell me that he snores,” Sansa accuses shifting her chair a little closer to the bed so she can poke him gently in the chest.

Jon laughs softly, eyes brighter than she’s seen them since she’s been here.

“I did warn you that he’d try to crawl in with you.”

She sits back, trying to suppress the smile.

“You could have mentioned that he knows how to open doors. He gave me a fright, I thought it was Robb.”

“Robb’s hardly frightening,” he scoffs. She laughs, the sound surprising her in it’s rarity, and shakes her head.

“Well, when it wasn’t him I thought it was a ghost.”

“It _was_ Ghost,” Jon replies, lips curled in amusement. She reaches out to smack him, then catches herself. She’s not sure she’s ever heard him make a joke before, let alone two in a row.

“Very funny.”

“What d’you think I named him for?” He adds, wincing as he shifts in bed.

“I thought it was because he was white,” she admits. After a moment of watching him grimace, she stands, hands hovering above his chest. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, it’s just a spasm in my shoulder, I don’t think I can reach it.”

She frowns.

“It’s fine, Sansa,” he says, noticing her expression. “It’ll pass.”

“Which shoulder?”

“Left,” he grunts, and she can tell it’s getting worse. She reaches down and gently pulls the gown away from his shoulder, relieved to see barely any bruising there. She presses her fingers along his skin until she feels the muscle that’s pulled taut, and begins to work at the knot with her fingers.

“Does that hurt?” She asks, worried she’s poking at his injuries.

“No.” He’s turned his head to stare at her though, and it’s making her self-conscious. They’ve never been very tactile in their relationship, never been close enough that it was natural. Eventually the knot loosens under her fingers, and he sighs in relief.

“Better?”

“Yes,” he sounds tired when he answers, eyes drifting shut. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She sits back down in the chair, folding her hands in her lap as the urge to reach out and touch him again tugs at her fingers.

“And thank you for taking care of Ghost. I know he can be a handful.” Jon’s eyes are open when she looks back up at him.

“I don’t mind. I don’t think I’ve ever met a dog as smart as Ghost. Sometimes I feel like he can read my thoughts.”

Jon is quiet, his gaze thoughtful.

“He’s part wolf, you know.”

Her mouth falls open in surprise.

“You’re not serious.”

“I am. About half. It’s a bit more than’s allowed, legally, but the shelter I got him from couldn’t actually prove it, so there was nothing they could do.”

“Huh.” She falls silent, thinking about the size of Ghost, the intelligence in his eyes.

“I don’t usually tell people, it tends to make them nervous. I hope it doesn’t bother you, since you’re staying there with him. Robb could probably take over walking him if it does.”

Pulled from her thoughts, she focuses back on him.

“Hmm? Oh, no it’s fine. I like Ghost. He’s still better behaved than most.”

“Maybe when you’re around,” Jon says suspiciously. She smiles sweetly, earning her another laugh. It’s a sound she rarely heard when they were growing up, and certainly never prompted by her. He has a wonderful laugh, deep and contagious, and she finds herself wanting to hear it again.

“I’m going to miss him,” she says carelessly, lost in thought. When his smile falls away, she mentally kicks herself for it. “I’ve got to go back tomorrow, my boss is getting a little impatient in my absence.

“Ah.” He nods. “Back to the grind.”

“Something like that,” she sighs. Then, “Is it going to be difficult for you?”

“What d’you mean?”

“Not being able to go back to work for a while.”

His eyes darken slightly, icy gray turning to steel.

“I’m not exactly looking forward to being couchbound, no.”

“I’m sorry,” her gaze drops back down to her hands. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“It’s fine. Nothing I hadn’t already thought of.”

Sansa stands, bending to press a kiss to his temple. He looks only a little less surprised this time.

“You should get some sleep. I…I’ll stop by in the morning before I go.”

“You didn’t have to come, you know,” he says suddenly. She flinches, and he seems to regret it.

“I did,” she says, and he looks a little embarrassed for bringing it up at all. “I wanted to.”

He’s so quiet that for a moment she thinks she’s lost him to the pain medication.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he says, finally. “I’m glad you came.”

“Me too.” She gives his hand a gentle squeeze. “Now get some rest, before Nurse Amanda has my head for interfering with her patients.”

He smiles, but closes his eyes. Sansa waits until his breathing evens out, the tension in his forehead fading, until she slips back into the hall.

 

* * *

 

 

“Ghost.” Sansa sighs, crossing her arms as she regards the massive wolfdog currently standing in front of the door. “I’ve got to go.” She’s already taken him for his walk this morning, and woke to find that Robb had fed and watered him. There’s no reason for him to be acting this way, but she suspects that he knows she’s leaving.

She nudges her suitcase forward with her foot, but Ghost doesn’t move. There’s a look in his red tinted eyes that Sansa can’t truly describe as anything other than betrayal.

“Clever boy,” she says quietly, kneeling in front of him and running her hand over the top of his head. “I’ll miss you, too. But you need to let me say goodbye to Jon.”

With a noise that sounds uncannily like a sigh, Ghost nuzzles her neck, then trots a few feet to the side, clearing her path. She kisses the top of his head, getting to her feet.

“Goodbye, Ghost.”

He whines, but stays put. The wave of guilt that catches her as she closes the door behind her is surprising. It was only a few days, and it’s not as though she’s abandoning him. Ghost has Jon, and Robb.

“It’s a dog, for heaven’s sake, Sansa.” She mutters under her breath. “Pull yourself together.”

But her heart feels heavy as she makes her way through the halls to the room Jon was moved to this morning. His placement in PACU was temporary, and they’ve moved him to a more long-term care wing.

She ducks inside, seeing her father and Arya sitting on either side of Jon’s bed.

“Where’s Mum and Rickon?” She asks, kissing her father’s cheek.

“Went to get Rickon some Jell-O,” Arya answers, dodging the kiss Sansa leans down to give her. Both Jon and Ned laugh.

“Bran’s flying in later,” Ned adds. “What time were you going to leave?”

“Now,” Sansa says regretfully. “I hate that I’m going to miss him.”

“Well, you’ll see him at Christmas.” Her father says. There’s something like an accusation under his words, a reminder that missing two of the past few family Christmases is as much as he’ll allow. She nods.

“I just came to say goodbye,” Sansa turns to Jon, who’s watching her lazily. “I wish I could stay longer.”

Jon shrugs, grimacing at the movement.

“There’s nothing you can do here. No sense in getting yourself behind.” He sounds almost…disappointed. But she must be mistaken.

“I’ll call,” she tells him. “-to check on you.” It’s obvious from his face, and Arya’s, that the don’t believe her. But that only makes her more determined to do so.

“Thank you, Sansa.” He says, “For coming, and for Ghost, and-”

She leans down, wrapping her arms around him in what’s likely the softest hug she’s ever given. But his hand comes down on her back, and she finds she has to fight back tears for the second time that day.

“I _will_ call.” She says, softly enough that her father and sister can’t hear. “I promise.”

When she pulls away Jon looks almost incredulous, but she presses a last kiss to his forehead before walking around the bed to hug her father.

“I’ll see you in a month.”

He kisses the top of her head, and then she tugs Arya into the embrace before her sister can get away.

“You, too.”

Arya makes a noise of disgust, but doesn’t move to escape.

Eventually, Sansa pulls away, that twinge of sadness that appears whenever she has to say goodbye to her family tugging at her chest.

“I’ve got to go find Mum and Rickon, I need to get on the road.”

“Alright, drive safe. Give us a call when you get home.” Ned says.

As she moves toward the door, Sansa drapes a hand over Jon’s blanket covered shin.

“Get well, Jon.”

“Goodbye, Sansa.”

Every step from the room feels sad and guilty, as though she should stay, as though she’s running away. But he’s right, she can’t help him by staying, and she has a life to get back to in New York. And the longer she’s here, the more time she spends with her family, the more she’s afraid they’ll realize how much she’s changed.

And that they’ll start to wonder why.

Besides, his real family, the ones who have always treated him as such, are here. They’ll take care of him. Sansa’s not sure she even knows how to take care of herself anymore.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short but sweet, I hope. Remember the actual roommates premise of this fic? That's coming! Love you all my lovelies, how are we liking season 7?

“Sansa?”

“Hmm?” She looks up, pen caught between her teeth, and blinks at her assistant.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes, sorry.” She snags the pen from her mouth with her fingers. “What were you saying?”

Myrcella gives Sansa a questioning look, but eventually glances back down at the tablet in her hands.

“Daenerys called, she wants to know where we’re at for pledges. And Cathy from the venue called, apparently our guest list exceeds their maximum capacity.”

Sansa exhales irritably.

“Cathy’s the one who _told_ me we could seat four hundred.” When Myrcella just stands by nervously, Sansa waves airily. “It’s fine, I’ll call her. And I’ll call Daenerys this afternoon.”

She expects the blonde to take that as her cue to leave, they’re both completely buried in work with the charity gala only a few weeks away, but Myrcella doesn’t move.

“Was there something else?” Sansa asks, confused.

“I was just wondering how your brother is.”

“My-” For a moment, Sansa isn’t sure what she means. “Oh. Jon’s doing well, all things considered.”

“And you?”

“I’m fine.” She gives the younger woman a pinched smile. “Thanks for asking.”

Myrcella gives her a much warmer smile in return, before closing the door behind her. She’s sweet, if a little oblivious sometimes, but she’s done a good job since Sansa hired her in the summer. It had started out as an internship, but after having so many assistants who either grated on her nerves or were completely useless, Sansa had asked her to stay on.

She’s been home for almost a week, and now that Myrcella’s brought him up, Sansa feels guilty for not having called Jon yet to check in. She’s sure he isn’t really expecting her to, but she finds herself wanting to hear his voice.

Her thumb hovers over the call button for almost a minute before she finally gives in and presses it.

He answers after three rings.

“Hullo?”

“Hi, it’s Sansa.” Her cheeks burn, because he’ll know that, obviously.

“I figured. How’s the big apple?”

She sighs, rolling her eyes. She’s always hated when people call it that.

“Busy. How’s Boston?”

“Well, the inside of this hospital room is grand.” He jokes, but she can hear a hint of bitterness in it. “But I’ve been told it’s cold outside.”

She frowns.

“Are you still stuck in bed? I would have thought you’d at least be allowed to walk around a little.”

“They’re worried my lung will collapse again, I guess.” He sounds tired, the kind that creeps in when you’ve been lying in bed too long with nothing but your thoughts, the kind that can’t be eased with sleep, that lives inside your bones. Sansa knows it well. She doesn’t like hearing it on him.

“If having a ceiling cave in on top of you didn’t kill you, I can’t imagine a short walk around the courtyard would do it,” she says, almost to herself. Starks don’t do well when they’re caged in one place too long. And Jon may not be a Stark in blood, but she’s always recognized it in him, something a little wild, the need to move.

He laughs, the sound bringing her back to the conversation.

“I’m glad you think so, at least.”

“Do you have a better idea when you can go home?” She wonders. The thought of him being stuck in that room, stuck in that bed, bothers her.

“Not really. It will probably be another week or so before they can tell how things are healing.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, and she means it.

“Thanks.”

“I should probably go.” The long list of things she needs to get done before leaving the office that evening scrolls behind her eyes.

“Alright.”

“I’ll call again to see how you are.”

“Sure, Sansa.” She can practically see his expression, the same one he wore the first time she’d promised to call. “Have a good night.”

“You, too.”

She hangs up, turning to sort through her e-mails for the one from Cathy.

Her afternoon is filled with phone calls and meetings, but she finds herself distracted for most of them. All she can hear, as the caterers go over their menus, and Daenerys presses her to double the pledges they’ve brought in, is Jon’s voice. How depressed he’d sounded.

As she walks from her last meeting of the day back to her office, she pulls out her cellphone again, dialling her older brother’s number.

“Sans?”

“Hey, Robb.”

“How are things, little sister? How’s the big apple?”

Sansa bites her lip in amusement, reminding herself that the two men _had_ grown up together.

“It’s alright. I hear Boston’s cold.”

He snorts.

“Of course it’s cold. It’s Boston.”

It’s getting colder in New York, as well, but she rarely finds herself outside these days.

“I spoke to Jon earlier.”

“Oh?” Robb doesn’t even try to hide his surprise.

“He sounded a little…restless.” She steps over a crater in the sidewalk, drawing her scarf a little tighter to her neck. It isn’t far back to her office, but it’s windier than it was when she decided to walk instead of taking a cab.

“Mmm, I think he’s getting a bit of cabin fever. I expect they’ll release him sometime in the next week or so, though.”

“I had an idea,” she says, hesitantly, suddenly afraid Robb will think it’s stupid, or Jon will, or both. “-to cheer him up.”

“Oh really?” Her brother sounds amused, if a little confused. “And what, pray tell, might that be?”

* * *

 

She’s crawling into bed as the text comes in, her phone vibrating from it’s place on her nightstand.

 _Thank you_.

It’s from Jon. She smiles, firing off a response as she turns off the lamp beside her bed.

**_For what?_ **

Barely a few seconds have passed before her phone buzzes again.

_Robb mentioned this was your idea._

**_And how is Ghost?_ **

She thinks back to Robb’s laugh when she’d suggested he Skype Jon from the apartment so he could see his dog. Her brother had thought it was stupid, at least a little, but he’d also admitted that it would probably go a far way to cheer Jon up.

_Trouble, as usual. Why are you still up?_

Sansa sighs, knowing it’s well past midnight and she has to be up at six if she wants to have time to finalize the guest list before cornering Cathy from the Wiltshire. For an absurd moment, Sansa considers telling him the truth.

That she barely sleeps, now. That she has nightmares that aren’t nightmares at all and wakes up screaming or bleeding where her fingernails have dug into her palms, salt on her lips from the tears and the sweat. That there are reasons she’s all but barricaded herself in the city, away from her family, and it’s not because she’s cold, like Arya snipes, or because she’s ambitious, like Catelyn always defends, but rather that the past few years have been the worst of her life and by now her secrets are too numerous and tangled to even begin to unwind and explain.

That she’s not sure there is anything at all left of that doe-eyed girl from Manchester.

She _can’t_ tell him that, though, not _Jon_ of all people.

**_Haven’t you heard? This city never sleeps._ **

But that’s just another lie, because when his reply comes a few moments later, Sansa is already fast asleep.

* * *

 

“Robb, I’m sorry, I _can’t_.” Sansa presses the pad of her thumb firmly against her eyelid, trying to distract from the burning of exhaustion.

“Sansa, he’s been stuck in that room for almost two weeks, he could use a little fresh company.”

She stares at the mess of her desk, very nearly buried in paperwork and linen samples and photos of items being donated for the gala’s silent auction. This is the busiest time of any event for her, the week leading up to the day, and as much as it surprised her that she’d _like_ to see Jon again, she simply doesn’t have the time.

“I know, and I wish I could get away. But I really mean it when I say I can’t.”

He makes a noise of disbelief, and her vision tinges red.

“I should have known. You’ve been too busy to get away to see any of us ever since you moved out there to begin with. Least of all Jon.”

“That’s not fair,” she says sharply, the sting of it more acute than she’d expected. He doesn’t know anything, her brother. She kept it from him. So the missed holidays, the cancelled weekends, all he knows of it is that she was too busy to make time for their family. That was the way she wanted it. Better he resent her than pity her.

But now-

“Nevermind. I shouldn’t have asked. Good luck with your event.”

And then he’s gone.

Sansa lets her phone drop from her ear, staring at it. Fresh guilt settles into her stomach, joining the rest. She can’t let it get to her, not after everything she’s done to stitch herself back together.

But when she lays in bed that night, Robb’s voice is ringing in her ears, and the image of Jon laying alone in his hospital bed is the last thing she sees before sleep finally overtakes her.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovelies! Here it is, the beginning of the actual plot haha. Hope you're all still with me, and thank you for the feedback!

“Don’t let Robb make you feel bad.”

Sansa blinks, phone pressed between her ear and shoulder.

“What?”

“I know he asked you to come out and see me. _Visit poor Jon in his sick bed_. It’s ridiculous, I’m fine. I’ll be out of here in a week or so anyways.” Jon sounds bitter again, and despite claiming that he’s fine, Sansa wonders if her brother was right.

“I’m not calling because Robb made me feel bad,” she sighs. “I just wanted to see how you were.”

“I’m fine.”

She rolls her eyes.

“You sound it.”

“Well, I would be. But Robb’s hovering around like a bloody nursemaid, driving me mad.”

Sansa smiles at that, able to perfectly imagine it.

“You remember how he was after Bran had his accident. I don’t know why you’re surprised.”

His sigh comes over the line, almost achingly familiar. It’s one of the only noises he did make when they were children, that sigh.

“The doctor said something about stairs being bad for my lung while it heals. Robb’s off having a brood about it-”

“Stairs?” Sansa cracks an egg into the mixing bowl in front of her, whisking it into the butter and sugar there. “Does he know you live on the seventh story of a building with no elevator?”

“Well, that’s what Robb’s gotten all worked up about. He wants me to stay with Theon when I get out.”

“Theon?” She frowns as she pours the batter into a cake tin. “You’d probably be better off taking your chances with the stairs.”

Jon snorts.

“That’s pretty much what I said. But he’s being insufferable-”

“You’d better get used to insufferable if you’re moving in with Theon,” Sansa muses. She slides the cake tin into the oven, setting a timer.

“I suppose.” The oven beeps as it reaches temperature. “What’s that?”

“The oven. I’m baking.”

“Lemon cakes?” He asks, and she can’t help but smile.

“No. It’s a fruitcake for a patron’s mother, she loves them for some reason.” Sansa personally can’t stand fruitcake, has always found it too dense and too bland.

“And why are you making fruitcake for a patron’s mother?” He wonders, sounding genuinely curious.

“There’s a painting they’ve been thinking of donating for the auction next week, but his mother’s been hesitating. I thought maybe a personal touch would help.”

“That’s sweet of you.”

She nearly laughs. Sweet. That used to be how people described her, sweet Sansa Stark. Some still do, though only because she’s been careful to craft that image for them. More would probably describe her as cold, calculating, chilled by that Northern blood, but that’s been intentional on her part as well.

“If you say so. You must be looking forward to seeing Ghost, anyhow.”

“I think Robb’s looking forward to it more,” Jon replies, sounding amused and a little lighter than before. “Apparently he hasn’t been behaving as well for your brother as he did for you.”

“Well,” she drops onto the couch, flicking on her television and setting it to the news. “I’m sure he misses you.”

He just makes a sound of agreement, and the line falls silent. Her mind wanders, eyes fixed on the muted image of a home invasion somewhere in Florida.

“Your doctor, was he really that concerned with you taking the stairs?” She can’t imagine Jon would be content to stay cooped up in the apartment all day in order to avoid the exercise. It would be no different than his current confinement to his hospital bed.

“Seemed like it. I can handle a few stairs, but I think Robb was serious about me staying with Theon.”

“Theon’s an ass. You don’t want to stay with him.”

“Of course I don’t _want_ to, but short of getting into an actual fistfight over it with your brother, I’m not sure I’ll have a choice. It’d be temporary, anyway.”

“It would,” Sansa snorts. “-considering one or both of you would be dead in less than a week.”

His laugh comes through, low and rough, and she gets that same feeling in her stomach as she did in the hospital. Warmth.

“Well, maybe the doctor will change his mind.”

She lets out a long, slow breath, eyes fluttering closed as the smell of baking wafts through the air.

“Maybe.”

* * *

 

Sansa hasn’t slept in two days.

It happens sometimes, when she’s so close to an event. Daenerys never explicitly asks that she be on call, working through the night, but she ends up here often anyways, tea in hand, the night worn in and deep. 

She’d delegate, but there are few people who can do what she does. After taking her first meeting with Daenerys Targaryen, the blonde had shaken her head, informing Sansa she’s a mind for politics, and asking why she was wasting her talents in something like event planning. Sansa had told her the truth. She despises politicians, and at least with charity work she knows the money she talks them out of is going to a good cause.

A job offer from Daenerys’ own organization had come only two days later, doubling Sansa’s salary and offering her a chance to work on events much bigger than those at her current job. If her boss at the time hadn’t fired her on the spot, Sansa probably wouldn’t have taken it. She doesn’t do this work for the money or the glory.

When her phone rings she startles, glancing at the clock on her living room wall. It’s almost five in the morning. She expects it to be Myrcella, or maybe one of her vendors cancelling at the last minute.

It’s not.

“Jon?” She asks, anxiety knotting in her stomach. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, I-sorry. Did I wake you?”

“No,” she sighs. “I couldn’t sleep. Why are you awake?”

“I couldn’t sleep either. They’re sending me home tomorrow.”

Sansa blinks, though he’s not here, and even if he were he wouldn’t be able to see it in the dark.

“Tomorrow as in later today?” She wonders.

“No. Day after. Monday.” His short syllables are familiar, and her fingers scratch idly at the upholstery on her couch cushions.

“That’s good news.” A sliver of happiness, shiny and yellow, wedges through her exhaustion. “You must be excited.”

“I am. I mean it’s from here to Theon’s, but I guess that’s an improvement.”

Sansa isn’t so sure.

“You’re really going to stay with him? For how long?”

He makes an uncertain noise.

“Dunno. A few weeks probably, maybe a month.”

“Oh, Jon, you can’t.” Theon may be an old friend of the family, and Robb and Jon for reasons she’s never understood, but he’s a self-important little twit. She’d go mad if she had to spend more than a few hours with him.

“It’ll be fine. I once slept behind a dumpster. Can’t be worse than that.”

“That was for one night,” she begins, then pauses thoughtfully. “I’m hoping, anyway. You really want to listen to Theon talk about himself for a month?”

“It’s not like I have any other options.” He doesn’t sound irritated, just defeated. “I’ll stay with him until I’m cleared to move back into my apartment.”

“Or you could stay with me.”

The words are out before she even realizes she’s thinking them. They’re followed by deafening silence.

Then Jon snorts.

“Right. I’ll just come out and stay with you in your fancy loft in New York.”

“It would be better than Theon’s,” she says, trying not to be hurt. There’s another pause, then-

“You’re serious?” He doesn’t try to hide the surprise in his voice.

“Yes.” Apparently. “I have an elevator, and a spare bedroom. I probably wouldn’t actually be home much, but to you I imagine that’s a good thing.”

“Sansa…”

“Just…just take the day to think about it. I’ve got an event tonight, but I could drive out tomorrow to come get you.”

Silence hangs on the line, and there’s a scraping in her chest, like a reminder of all the reasons she’s chosen not to be vulnerable anymore, never to trust, never to care.

“I…alright. I’ll think about it. Thank you.”

She nods, remembers he can’t see it.

Later, as she’s packing up her gown and shoes to change into at the hotel, she wonders at herself.

Why on earth has she invited Jon into her life, her home? How is she supposed to keep all her secrets with him so close at hand? Why does she even care that his accommodations at Theon’s would be marginally less comfortable?

Part of her considers that maybe she’s tired of it, the weight of the secrecy. Maybe this is her mind pushing for release from all the locks that shut it tight from the rest of the world. In the end, she decides it doesn’t matter.

Her secrets will keep.

They have to.

* * *

 

“Sansa.” Daenerys greets her, taking a sweeping glance around the ballroom from their spot in the corner. Her boss’s white blonde hair is tied back in a pair of braids that meet at the nape of her neck, tanned skin on display in a royal blue dress with her signature plunging neckline.

“Danaerys.” Sansa gives the other woman a nod, eyes following the path of Danerys’s violet ones. So far the event is going smoothly, although anything less would be beneath the standard Sansa sets for herself. And the one Dany sets for her as well. The silent auction is well on it’s way to surpassing their goal for the evening, and the guests seem to be having a good time, plied with alcohol and the company of other one percenters.

“You’ve outdone yourself, again,” the blonde notes, suppressing a smile. Compliments from her are rare, meaningful ones even rarer, so Sansa simply files the moment away for later reflection, and lets her lips curve slightly.

“Thank you. The Dragon Alliance should be happy.” The organization is one Danaerys supports wholeheartedly, dedicating an event, and precious resources, to it every other year. She doesn’t talk about it, but Sansa suspects there’s a reason the women’s charity is so important to the blonde. Maybe reasons Sansa would understand all too well.

“I’m sure they’ll be appreciative. They always are.” Her answer is distracted, and Sansa once again follows her gaze across the room, eyebrows winging up when she sees the man her boss is watching. “Daario Naharis. He’s a…new hire.”

Flushing at being caught snooping, Sansa clears her throat.

“He’s very handsome.” To her surprise, Dany laughs.

“And well aware of it.” She pauses, turning to fix Sansa with a curious look. “I don’t think I’ve ever noticed a man turn your head.”

“I’m not particularly fond of men,” Sansa says evenly, returning her bosses stare with a dry smile. Daenerys blinks.

“You prefer women?”

“Mmm? Oh, no.” Once, maybe, Sansa would have considered women safer. But she knows them now, remembers Cersei’s face when she’d gone to her for help, when she’d needed to be rescued from the monster Cersei created. Women can be cruel as men, if they’re bent to it. “I just meant…men have proven themselves to be more trouble than they’re worth, in my experience.”

At that, Dany’s gaze sharpens to razors, and Sansa can feel it cutting through her, dissecting the layers of carefully constructed ice she wears like armour. She stiffens a little under the scrutiny, but remembers to keep her face neutral, polite smile in place.

“I think we may have more in common than I originally predicted, Sansa Stark.”

Sansa’s smile just tightens.

“Perhaps.”

* * *

 

The party is nearly wrapped when the call comes in, the silver bracelet Sansa wears humming silently against her skin. It was a gift from Catelyn, a desperate attempt to stay in closer contact with her daughter. The sensor in it vibrates when her phone is ringing, allowing her to leave it in her bag instead of constantly holding it in her hand the way she used to.

But by the time she digs her iPhone out of her purse the call has ended. She frowns at the caller ID, knowing it can’t have rung more than twice.

Jon.

He obviously hung up halfway through, having changed his mind. And Sansa, for some baffling reason, knows exactly what it means.

* * *

 

Sansa, as a general rule, is one of the last to leave any of her own events. She oversees cleanup, the packing and shipping of auction items, and personally sees to the payment of all their vendors. It’s not usual, in their circles, for someone like her to take on such menial tasks, but she doesn’t trust anyone else to do it.

After one of her first charity events, the caterer called, irate about the stopped payment due to a complaint of food quality. Sansa hadn’t heard anything about a complaint, and after a short investigation, realized none existed. Her executive assistant, who’d been in charge of paying the caterer, had explained that it was just how business was done. Costs had to be cut in order to maximize profit, never mind that the organization was a non-profit one. She’d been livid, and paid the caterer out of her own pocket.

And now, she won’t let anyone else do it.

So it’s not unusual for her to find herself in the ballroom of an upscale New York hotel in the disgraceful hours of the morning.

As she hands off the last cheque, to the linen rental company, she fights the urge to drag a hand across her burning eyes. There might not be anyone important here, but Sansa Stark can’t walk around with makeup smeared across her face like a raccoon.

She changed out of her dress once the last of the guests had gone, into a pair of dark wash jeans and a draped grey blazer. She’s starting to get a headache from the pins in her elaborate updo, but that can wait until she’s home. Stifling a yawn, she checks the time on her phone. Nearly five.

She _should_ go back to her flat, wash off her makeup and crawl into her bed. The mornings after one of these parties are one of the only times she can really sleep, so flattened by exhaustion that even the nightmares can’t penetrate the darkness.

But she’s not going to bed. She’s going to Boston.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look! The plot, it has arrived! Got a final in a week and it's an asskicker so there might not be another update for a week or so, just be warned!

By the time Sansa arrives at Mass General, she’s already stopped for coffee four times. Consequently, she’s also had to stop to find a bathroom twice.

Her hands are practically vibrating as she makes her way to Jon’s room. Did he say what time he was being discharged? If he had, she doesn’t remember.

It’s just past eight-thirty, and she isn’t sure he’ll be awake, but when she rounds the corner into his room, he stares back at her. She hasn’t seen him standing since he’s been here, and she’s struck by the _presence_ of him suddenly.

“Sansa?” He gapes, after a moment passes. She looks a fright, she’s sure, makeup that’s been on for nearly a day starting to look ghoulish, her hair pulled into some fancy crown braid on the top of her head, the look pulled together with jeans and a hoodie she’d swapped for the blazer in her car.

“Hi.” Her voice is rough, and she clears her throat. “Good morning.”

He’s growing a beard, she notices. It’s not particularly much yet, but she finds she likes it. She hasn’t spent much time with him since he’s been old enough to grow facial hair. His eyes are wide with surprise, and she shifts her weight from foot to foot, trying to get a little blood flowing after sitting for so long. His hair is long, the grey of his t-shirt nearly perfectly matching that of his eyes.

“Sansa, what are you doing here?”

“I came to get you,” she says, matter of fact. It’s possible she interpreted his abandoned phone call wrong, but she doesn’t think so. Jon hates to ask for help. All the Starks do.

“But-” He almost stutters on the word. “-Why?”

“Because you called.”

His face changes, surprise turning incredulous.

“I didn’t say anything,” he murmurs, after a moment. She meets his softening eyes, and gives him a tired smile.

“You didn’t have to.”

It’s quiet for a moment, save for the beeping of machines. Jon just watches her, lost in thought.

“What time are you being discharged?” She asks, when the silence starts to drag. Her question pulls him back from wherever he’s gone, and he frowns.

“Uh, ten. Robb said he’d be by to get me.”

“To take you to Theon’s,” Sansa muses, then something else occurs to her. “Is he bringing you things? Since you won’t be able to go up to pack yourself?”

Jon shrugs, and she fights the urge to roll her eyes. Men, honestly. He seems to read her mind, lips tugging into an almost smile for the first time since she arrived.

“We’re not all as organized as you.” He mutters, and she sighs dramatically, dropping primly into the chair next to his bed.

“Sometimes I think your wolf knows what’s going on better than you do, Jon Snow.” She thinks back to her stay at his apartment, and the way Ghost’s keen eyes had watched her knowingly.

“You’re probably right,” Jon agrees, unbothered. Sansa’s trying not to stare, but for some reason her eyes are drawn to his face like magnets to a pole, to the strong line of his shadowed jaw. He’s a man grown, almost startlingly so. She never paid enough attention to him to notice when that happened. She’s twenty-three to his twenty-six; they’ve both been grown for a while now. But he was gone from their house when she was only fifteen, Cat saw to that, and Sansa was far too preoccupied at the time with her own teenage drama to pay any mind to the stray moving out of their basement. It fills her with shame, now, to remember how she treated him. Shame for herself and for her mother. Jon has always been so kind and gentle, and all he ever got for it was a cold shoulder from the redheaded Tully women. The dark haired Stark siblings, along with Sansa’s near twin Robb, have always been better to Jon than she was. There’s no excuse, really, though she’s been internally blaming her mother for years.

And then, once she was old enough to consider her almost brother, and far enough from her mother to shake Catelyn’s cool influence on that relationship, her life flipped upside down. Bran had his accident weeks after her nineteenth birthday, and her coinciding move to New York City. He lived, to the monumental relief of his family, though he’ll never walk again. That was where she first met Joffrey, when his father brought him to the hospital to offer Ned his support. He’d been charming, sympathetic, making Sansa feel like a princess in the way she’d always dreamed a man would. And when he’d mentioned that he was moving out to New York to go to school, it had felt like fate.

But it turned out Joffrey wasn’t a man, he was a boy. A mean one. And away from the careful eyes of their families, he’d burned every bridge she had in the city, until he was the only person left in her life. She’d been so terrified of being alone that she stayed with him, through the beatings and the screaming and the cruel, lethal words. She should have left him, but she didn’t.

And in the end, when he was the one to cast _her_ aside, bored by her perfect complacency, all she felt was relief. It occurred to her once or twice to be embarrassed of what she had become, but she could never muster the energy. If there’s anything Sansa has learned since leaving home, it’s that she’ll become whatever she needs to be to survive.

And then there was Ramsay, and that…that she still tries not to think about. She locks him in a box, much the way he did to her, and relegates him to the shadowy part of her mind that’s only allowed to come out in nightmares.

Jon coughs, bringing Sansa back to the present. His eyes are curious on her face, and she can’t help but wonder what her own expression had turned to when her thoughts strayed to Ramsay.

“Sorry,” she murmurs. “I-”

But a nurse comes in then, interrupting her. It’s not the woman she remembers from before, the matronly brunette. This woman is young and blonde, her warm brown eyes lighting up when she sees Jon. Sansa’s brows go up, but she bites her tongue.

“Jon! You get to go home today, are you excited?”

“Sure.” He gives her a small smile. After a moment, he seems to remember that Sansa is there, and waves a hand at her. “Yael, this is Sansa. Sansa, Yael.”

As a matter of habit, Sansa leans forward, extending a hand to the pretty young nurse. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“You too!” Yael says, though her smile suddenly doesn’t reach her eyes. “Jon didn’t tell me he had a girlfriend.”

Jon coughs, cheeks flaming. It’s an endearing sight, and Sansa chews her lip to keep from smiling.

“Not a girlfriend. We’re family.”

Yael’s mouth drops into an embarrassed _oh_ , but Sansa waves it off.

“Jon’s going to be staying with me while he recovers.” She explains. Yael’s brow shoots up.

“I didn’t know you had more family in town, Jon. I thought you were staying with Theon.” The sentence sounds a little like an accusation, and though Jon is clearly oblivious, Sansa has to bite an amused smile.

“I don’t,” he says. “Sansa lives in New York. This is…it’s a bit last minute, the change in plans.” As what appears to be an afterthought, he adds, “I guess I’ll have to take a raincheck on that coffee.”

Yael’s smile goes icy as she turns it on Sansa.

“Yes, well, let me know when you’re home. There are some discharge forms to fill out,” she says, the cheer in her voice now forced as she hands the clipboard to Jon. “Give those to reception on your way out. Oh and don’t forget,” she waves at a wheelchair tucked behind the bed that Sansa hadn’t noticed before.

“Do you need that?” Sansa asks, alarmed. He looks fairly steady on his feet now, but he’s always been one to downplay his pain.

He rolls his eyes.

“No. But apparently it’s _hospital policy_ ,” he mutters, the last two words spoken with disdain.

“It is.” Yael says from near the door, looking a little annoyed. “Anyway, good luck Jon. You have my number. Call me when you’re back in town.”

It’s Sansa’s turn to raise her eyebrows as Yael walks back over to Jon, leaning up to press her lips to his cheek. He looks just as surprised, cheeks flaming as the nurse departs with a little wave.

When she’s gone, Sansa whistles, a talent she picked up from her brothers early on.

“Jon Snow, I never.”

He glares at her, and she shakes with silent laughter as he grabs the clipboard and begins to fill it out, pointedly ignoring her.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! An actually decently long chapter! Whoop!
> 
> Also, to all those worried I would leave Ghost behind, fear not! I would never separate Jon and Ghost, or Sansa and Ghost for that matter. Where Jon goes, his wolf is sure to follow. Although by the end of this, who exactly Ghost belongs to might be up for debate. Enjoy, and let me know what you think. I love all the feedback you guys have given me so far, you're the best. <3

They call Robb just in time to catch him before he leaves the apartment. Sansa gives him a list of things to pack, and by the time they pull into the garage under their building, she hopes he has it all ready to go. She’s having a hard time hiding just how tired she is from Jon.

“I’ll just run in and get your things,” she says, unbuckling. “You stay here.”

“Honestly, I can handle a few stairs, and if Robb packs anything like you do I know there will be more than one bag.” Jon says, looking a little irritated by the babying.

“Then I’ll make him bring it down,” Sansa replies, leaving out a remark about how she’s stronger than she looks these days. “If you injure yourself on the first day under my watch I’ll never live it down.”

“Your _watch-_ “ He sputters, but she’s already swinging the door open. If he wants to have a tantrum about being taken care of, he can do it while she’s retrieving his things. When she gets to the apartment door, her legs are burning.

Maybe the doctor wasn’t quite so wrong about the stairs being a problem after all.

Robb meets her there, swinging it open before she has a chance to knock.

“Care to explain, Sans?”

“Hmm?” She asks, stepping around him into the apartment and spying a small pile of luggage stacked against the wall. “Explain what?”

“You just show up out of the blue and call to say that Jon’s going to be staying with you in New York after-” He cuts himself off so abruptly that Sansa turns to look at him.

“After what?” She asks carefully. Part of her knows exactly what he was going to say, but part of her needs to hear it out loud from him. He takes a small step back, rubbing at the back of his neck.

“I didn’t-“

“After _what_ , Robb?”

He sighs.

“Look, you’ve just never been close, alright? I mean, I never really thought you even _liked_ Jon.”

She catches her bottom lip between her teeth, chewing at it.

“I like him fine, I just…I understand it, why you’d think that. But the alternative was that he stay with Theon and even if I _hated_ him I wouldn’t wish that on him.”

Her brother’s lips twitch.

“And it’s not completely out of the blue, I offered a couple days ago. I just didn’t think he wanted to come.”

“Oh?” Robb’s eyebrows quirk. “And what exactly changed your mind?”

She looks down at her hands.

“He called.”

“He _asked_ to stay with you?” Robb sounds gobsmacked, not that she can blame him.

“No, not exactly. I just-it’s not a problem, is it?” She wonders suddenly. It occurs to her that he might not trust her to take care of Jon, that he thinks she’ll neglect him out there in the city where he knows no one. And though she may deserve that, it stings a little.

“No, Sans, it’s not a problem. It’s just…”

“Strange?” Sansa asks, her own lips curving. He grins back.

“Pretty much.”

“Are you going to help me carry these or are we just going to talk about how incredibly out of character it is that I’m doing something nice for someone?” She finally asks.

“I’m not saying you’re not _nice_ ,” Robb mutters as he moves to sling two of the bags over his shoulder, though it sounds like that’s exactly what he’s saying. “You’re just not usually nice to Jon.” She hits him in the shoulder, clearly harder than he was expecting. He rubs at it, shooting her a dark look. She picks up the last bag, then looks around.

“Where’s Ghost?”

At the sound of his name, he comes plodding out of Jon’s rooms, tail wagging furiously at the sight of Sansa.

“Hello there,” she murmurs, fingers combing through the thick fur on his head as he nudges her thigh with his nose. “Does he have things as well?”

Robb pauses in the doorway, frowning at her.

“What d’you mean?”

“A leash, food, toys…I don’t know, dog things.” She says, struggling to swallow a yawn. Robb just stares. “Robb?”

“Wait, are you taking Ghost?” He asks, shock written across his features. She blinks.

“Of course. Jon could be at my place for a month or two and-“

“Sansa, a _dog_? Are you sure? You realize he sheds and he’s dirty and-” Her brother looks so incredulous, and her stomach aches a little as she realizes what he sees. He sees Sansa. The one who cared so much about appearances and frivolous thing and would never stand for dog hair on her couch.

The Sansa who died. The one she’s mourned and buried. But her family…they look at her and they see a dead woman. They have no idea who she is now.

It’s her fault, entirely her fault. But then again, that was the point.

She swallows the sudden lump in her throat and forces a smile.

“I know what a dog is, Robb. I think it would be good for Jon to have him around. He’s not going to know anyone else in the city.”

“I…alright.” Robb nods, still looking confused. He dumps the bags on the ground, walking toward Jon’s room. “You take some of that down.” He calls over his shoulder. “I’ll find some of Ghost’s shit and meet you at the car.”

She does, hefting one of the bags over her shoulder and grabbing one more in each hand. The smooth line of her muscles bunch under her porcelain skin, a reminder of how much has changed. Of all the pieces of her she’s carved into steel, inside and out.

When she rounds the corner of the parkade and the Range Rover comes into view, Jon’s eyes widen. She probably looks like a pack mule, but she clicks a button on her key ring and the hatch at the back hisses open. She huffs a little as she swings the luggage into the trunk.

Jon tries to swivel in his seat, then swears.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” she says automatically.

“Did Robb make you bring it all down yourself?” He asks indignantly. A long yawn escapes.

“No,” she says, sighing. “He’s grabbing a few more things.”

As if on cue, Robb appears, another small bag on his shoulder, Ghost trotting happily beside him. Sansa slams the trunk shut and walks around the car to meet them.

“Here are some of his things. He’s nearly out of food here, so you’ll just have to buy some in New York.” He hands the leash over to her, and she nods.

“Thanks. If you want to say goodbye…” she gestures at the car. She doesn’t want to say it out loud in case Jon can hear them, but he clearly is going to need help getting out of the car, so her brother will have to go to him instead. Robb seems to understand, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

“I’m not sure what this is all about,” he says quietly, his familiar blue eyes warm on hers. “But it’s nice, Sans. You’re doing a good thing.”

“If only you would stop sounding so surprised about it,” she says drily, and he grins.

As he walks over to speak to his friend, Sansa opens one of the back doors.

“In you get,” she says to Ghost, gesturing up at the seat. He jumps up without further prompting. Even in the bigger SUV he looks a little cramped, but it’s not _too_ long a drive, and she makes a mental note to make a stop in the middle to let him out.

When it seems that Robb has wrapped up his farewell, she climbs into the drivers seat, waving at him through the windshield. He waves back, then turns the corner and disappears.

Jon is quiet as she starts the car, and neither of them say anything until they’ve been driving nearly fifteen minutes. Ghost seems to have gone to sleep after a good ten minutes of showering Jon with affectionate whines and wet noses on cheeks, and it’s so quiet Sansa considers turning the radio on just to have something to keep her awake.

“I didn’t realize you were bringing Ghost, too.” He says.

It takes her a moment to register that he’s speaking, and another few seconds to make sense of his words.

“I-would you rather have left him with Robb?” She’d just assumed he’d want his dog with him, especially considering how abnormally close the two seem to be.

“No,” he says quickly. “I’d rather have him, but-you didn’t have to do that Sansa.”

She gives him a quizzical look.

“I know. But he was included in the invitation to stay with me. I suppose I should have mentioned it. Besides, he’d drive Robb mad if we left them alone for a month.”

“Yeah,” Jon nods at that, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. It’s going to be a sore ride for him, she knows that, and she’s torn between going slow to smooth out the ride and just getting it over with so he can get out of the car. “Well, thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she says, simply.

The silence falls again, and by the time they reach New Haven she caves and hit a Starbucks drive-through while she’s getting gas, something she hadn’t had time to do the night before.

“Black?” She asks, as they pull up to the speaker box. He nods, frowning.

“How’d you know?”

She snorts, and again, the sound surprises him.

“A lucky guess,” she replies, turning around to put in their order. He doesn’t say anything when she asks for a Venti Americano with two extra shots of espresso.

After they’ve gassed up, she parks and lets Ghost out for a quick run around the block. When they’re back on the road, the dog settles back into his nap as though he’s perfectly used to such long drives. Sansa can’t imagine when he’d have been taken on any, since Jon never brings him home for holidays that she knows of.

“This is a nice car,” Jon says. She’s pulled out of her musings, and shrugs.

“I guess.” She doesn’t care much about cars, aside from making sure the ones she drives go fast.

“Not really what I’d have pictured for you, a Range Rover,” he adds, looking over at her.

“It’s not mine,” she tells him. “I mean, it is, but it’s for work. For hauling supplies back and forth to venues and in case we need any last minute catering or something like that.”

“You brought your work car on an interstate trip? How’s your boss like that?”

Again, she shrugs.

“Well, since I own it, she probably won’t care. It’s more of a second car than a company car, I just meant that I only use it for work. And I figured the three of us wouldn’t fit in my car, not comfortably.” She pictures Ghost squished in the back of her Mercedes coupe and shakes her head. When she can still feel him staring at her after a few moments have passed, her skin begins to itch. “What?” She asks.

He looks away.

“I just…you’ve really thought of all this in a few hours. Remembered all the details. I never understood what you did when Robb explained it, but…it makes sense. I can see it now.”

Surprised, and more touched than she’s entirely comfortable with, she clears her throat. Compliments are one thing. Completely sincere compliments from someone she’s always been awful to are another entirely.

“Thank you.” His compliment, ironically, reminds her of something she forgot. “Did you want me to have someone drive your car out? I don’t know if you’ll be up to driving, but I can get an extra parking spot.”

He waves a hand dismissively.

“It wouldn’t survive the trip, honestly. I should probably junk it when I get back.”

Ah, yes. As much as Ned has tried to support Jon financially, the same way he supported his other children, Jon has never been comfortable accepting Stark money. He didn’t go to college, opting to become a firefighter instead. He pays rent to Robb, who owns their apartment, and bought a secondhand car with more miles than most live to see.

She used to think it was stupid.

But now…she understands that need for independence. Better, maybe, than anyone.

“Well if you need to go out you can take this one, or my car if I’m not using it.” She offers. He’s much more responsible than Robb, and she’s hardly worried about him damaging it. He’s always so careful with things. He’s had to be.

“Thanks,” he winces. “But I doubt I’ll be driving anytime soon.”

She glances over at him in concern.

“Are you in a lot of pain? Did they give you anything for it?”

“I’m fine,” he says, though not convincingly. “I’ve already taken some, I’m just stiff.”

“We’re almost there,” she says, surprised to realize it’s true. The drive there had seemed much longer than this one. “About twenty minutes.”

He grunts in response, then goes quiet. As Sansa pulls into her parking garage twenty minutes later, she realizes he’s fallen asleep.

Ghost’s head pops up when she turns off the engine. She opens the door to let him out, then grabs Jon’s things from the back.

“Let’s take these up, give him a minute to sleep,” she says to the dog, who follows her into the elevator. They take it to the top, and she deposits the luggage, along with Ghost, in her spare room. “I’ll be right back,” she tells him. It occurs to her that it’s not normal, strictly speaking, to talk to an animal that way, but she’s far too tired to care.

When she gets back to the car, Jon is still asleep.

She unbuckles his seat belt, then shakes his shoulder carefully. He groans, eyes fluttering reluctantly open. They crinkle with confusion when they see her standing over him.

“Hey sleepyhead, we’re here,” she says. He blinks a few times, looking around. “I’ve already taken Ghost upstairs.”

“Oh,” he says. “Sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“It’s fine,” she says firmly. “You’re still healing. You need your rest.”

He moves to get out of the car, then hisses with pain. She’s beside him immediately, arm wrapping around his waist. Gently, she helps him slide out and onto the concrete. Once he’s straightened up, he pulls out of her grip.

“Thanks,” he says, not meeting her eyes.

 _Men_ , she thinks. Such fragile things.

And oh, how sharp they can be with their broken pieces.

When they step into the elevator, his eyes widen. For the first time, she realizes he’s never been here before. He scans the glossy wood panels, the gleaming chrome. Compared to the apartment building he and Robb live in, it probably seems a bit much. Then he spots the green ring currently highlighting the _PH_ at the top of the button panel.

“You live in the penthouse,” he says, sleep still lingering in the softness of his words.

“Uh, yes. But you’ll never have to take the stairs.” She says. “Unless there’s a fire or-.”

“No I just-” He shakes his head. “Never mind.”

When the elevator stops at her floor, she taps her key fob against the sensor, and they swing open. Through the short hallway is another door, and she slides her key into that lock before swinging it open too.

Jon follows her in, and she’s suddenly, inexplicably, nervous. She’s guarded her home carefully over the past few years. Like a dragon guarding it’s lair, or a wolf guarding it’s den. Bad things have happened to her here, and sometimes she’s afraid they’ve left a trace, that anyone who makes it inside will be able to read them on the walls.

Nevermind that she cleaned up all the blood long ago.

“So,” she says, hanging her keys on the hook in the entry. “This is home.”

He looks around silently, face unreadable.

“It’s really nice,” he says finally. Ghost appears at the sound of his voice, and he smiles, the first genuine one she’s seen on him all day. As Sansa watches the two interact, she feels the stirring of something warm and unfamiliar in her chest. Something she hasn’t felt in a long time.

It’s followed by a twinge of panic, and she sweeps both emotions away to a place they can be ignored.

“Thanks.” She murmurs it as an afterthought, a slip in manners her mother would have been horrified at. “Are you hungry?”

It’s just four, and they haven’t eaten, save for a shared bag of potato chips from the gas station. He shrugs, then winces. His nonchalance is betrayed when his stomach lets out a loud growl, and the corners of her lips curl despite herself.

“I’m too knackered to cook,” she says with a sigh. Truthfully, she suspects her legs are going to give out beneath her, and she’s much too tired to be hungry. But she can hardly let her new guest go hungry. “How does takeout sound? Pizza?”

She usually goes for something more fussy, like a lettuce wrap from the vegan place down the street. It’s not that she even likes the overpriced and underflavoured food so much, but it seems to be what people expect of her. But she’s not planning on eating much anyway, and she remembers him and Robb and Theon devouring a large pizza each when they were in high school.

Besides, New York _is_ famous for it’s pizza.

“That sounds great,” he says, though he does it without much enthusiasm. She suspects he’s nearly as tired as she is, considering his impromptu nap in the car.

“I’ll show you your room,” she says, thinking he might want to crash for a few minutes before the food comes. When she turns to the hallway, something wet and cold nudges her thigh. Her hand goes to rest on Ghost’s head automatically as they come up to the bedroom door. She looks over her shoulder to point out the bathroom across the hall, but stops short at the look on Jon’s face.

He’s frowning at her, eyes trained on where her fingers have nestled in his wolf’s fur.

“Are you alright?” She asks, not sure if she’s done something wrong. His gaze snaps up to her face, and he blinks.

“I-yeah. Sorry. I’ve just…I’ve never seen him like that with anyone else,” he mutters, jerking his chin at the animal pressed against her side. “I assumed you were just being polite when you said he was well behaved for you, honestly.”

“Oh.” Not quite sure what to make of that, she shrugs. “Well, this is your room. The bathroom’s just there. I’ve already put your and Ghost’s things in here.”

“Thanks.” He doesn’t smile, that same, puzzled frown fixed on her. Sansa considers herself adept at making small talk, at playing the gracious hostess. It’s a skill she learned from her mother, and one that’s served her well in her career.

But with Jon standing there, his grey eyes considering her so intensely, she finds herself at a loss.

“I’ll just…” she gestures toward her own bedroom. “I’ll call for the pizza.”

She needs a shower as well. A bath would be even better, but she’s afraid she’ll fall asleep in the tub if she lays down. Besides, she’ll have to go down to the lobby to pick up her food from their doorman. Nothing ever gets delivered directly to the penthouse, a stipulation she put into place after Joffrey. She doesn’t greet visitors or deliveries personally. To an outsider, it would just seem as though she considers it beneath her, which suits Sansa just fine. The truth, that she considers it putting herself at unnecessary risk of exposure, wouldn’t fit with the slightly air headed persona she’s cultivated in the city.

After calling in the order, and then calling down to Rodrik to let him know to expect it, she peels off her clothes, leaving them in a pile on her bedroom floor. She’s never fully appreciated the convenience of having a master suite before, but she has a feeling the adjoining bathroom will become a godsend in the upcoming weeks with her houseguest.

It’s a small thing, the way she can physically feel two days of sweat and makeup and grime sliding off her body under the spray of water, but it grounds her. Joffrey always considered her vast collection of expensive soaps and shower gels to be frivolous, but the ritual has become something he would never understand. She runs her hand over her arm, washing away the fine lather of soap, and presses her finger gently against a tiny bruise. She’s not sure where it came from.

For a long time, she was covered in them. Her skin, beneath her clothes, was a mosaic of purple and green and yellow. Sometimes, when Joffrey slept, Sansa would take his hand and lay it across the bruises, watching his fingers fit the shadows of each perfectly. A reminder to herself of where they’d come from. She’d resolve, in the quiet and the still of the night, to leave him.

And then morning would come, and she’d realize she had nowhere to go.

It started then, the baths and the showers and the expensive, fragrant lotions. She’d rub them into her skin as an apology for the neglect and abuse.

 _I’m sorry_ , she’d think. _I’m sorry that I’m a coward_.

For a while, after Ramsay, she’d had to switch to something gentler, medical, something that wouldn’t anger the deep lines in her back that ran the water red for weeks. Her thumb finds a ridge on her back now, just at the dip of her waist, and she traces it. All the scars Joffrey left her were on the inside. Bruises faded and she replaced the things of hers he broke, and suddenly there was nothing left to prove her story except for a few text messages that she saved to her computer. Ramsay’s work was not so ephemeral. The texture of her skin as she runs her fingers across her back remind her of that.

Not that anyone will see those either.

Twenty minutes later she’s stepping out of the elevator into the lobby. Rodrik greets her, his long white hair swept into a braid at the back of his neck. Some of the tenants find his demeanour and appearance unprofessional. But Sansa trusts him, and she respects his loyalty, and none of the rest of it matters to her.

“Pizza for you, Ms. Stark. I charged it to your card.” She has a credit card on file for building expenses, and long ago approved it’s use by the doorman for deliveries.

She greets him with a tired smile.

“Thank you, Rodrik.” Then something else occurs to her. “I have a houseguest, he’ll be staying for at least a month. I’ll bring him down and introduce the two of you tomorrow, but I’m sure you’ll be seeing him around the building. He should have access to my account here, as well as all our amenities.” And the building certainly has it’s fair share of those. Two pools, a gym, a lounge for entertaining clients and friends, and the personal service of Rodrik and the other building staff.

His eyebrows go up, then he catches himself.

“Certainly, Ms. Stark. A friend?”

She tells herself it’s only polite conversation, and that the older man doesn’t mean to pry. It’s not his fault she guards her privacy so preciously.

“Family,” she corrects, because it’s both mostly true and something of an explanation for why such a fiercely private resident would suddenly have a long term houseguest. “His name is Jon. He has a rather large dog as well.”

This information only seems to increase Rodrik’s surprise, though Sansa suspects he thinks he’s doing a good job of hiding it.

“Ah, well, that’s very nice.” He says, dipping his chin. “I look forward to meeting him.”

“Oh, I’m sure by the time he’s leaving you’ll prefer him to me,” Sansa says, lips twitching. The old man shakes his head.

“I doubt that very much. Have a good night, Ms. Stark.”

She gives him another smile, this one warmer than her first.

“You as well, Rodrick.”

As the elevator doors close behind her, Sansa realizes that his is only the first of a long chain of shocked reactions at her taking Jon in. The thought only serves to add a new layer of fatigue on her existing exhaustion.

She barely manages to set the pizza on the counter and let Jon know it’s arrived before collapsing face first onto her bed.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey friends! Short chapter, but I'm just trying to fit an update in before my final. Let me know if this shows the story as updated or not, I've been having some problems with that.

 

 

_Warm._

Sansa is vaguely aware of a warm body beside her. The weight of it pulls the blankets taut over her, and for a moment she just revels in the heat. And then her mind begins to wake up. Her first thought is-

 _Joffrey_.

She bolts upright, gasping. But instead of being greeted by cold blue, her gaze meets a curious red one.

“Oh,” she claps a hand to her chest, eyes fluttering closed. “Ghost.”

A second voice startles her eyes open again.

“I-sorry.” Jon is standing in her doorway, a pair of grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips, his black t-shirt stretched across his broad chest. “I was looking for Ghost and I heard you gasp.” A pair of thick rimmed black glasses sit precariously on his nose, his sleepy gaze concerned underneath them. They’re different than the frames she remembers, and make him look more like a handsome professor than the nerd she used to tease him for being.

Resisting the urge to draw her sheets up around her, Sansa sighs.

“It’s alright. I just woke up and he…surprised me.” She rubs tiredly at her own eyes. “I thought he was-”

She breaks off suddenly, having almost shared too much in her half dreaming state.

“You thought he was…” Jon too seems not quite himself so fresh from sleep. She knows he would never have pried otherwise.

“No-one.” She says firmly, and watches something like a wall slide down behind his eyes as he remembers where he is, who she is to him. The years of history between them. “I was just startled.”

“Right.” Jon nods stiffly. “Well, I apologize. I told him not to go wandering but he seems to like you.”

 _Though I can’t imagine why_ , Sansa thinks she hear in his silence.

“It’s alright. I don’t mind.” Absently, her hand goes out to stroke across Ghost’s white fur. He hasn’t moved throughout this, still nestled close against her side. “It’s sort of nice to have one around again.”

When she pulls herself from her thoughts to look back up at Jon, he’s frowning at her.

“A dog?”

Is that what she meant? Suddenly she isn’t sure.

“Mhmm.” It’s noncommittal, but she doubts he’ll pick up on it. After a moment, silence sets in, and Jon takes a small step backward.

“I guess I’ll just…” he nods his head behind him. For the first time, Sansa glances at the clock glowing on her nightstand. It’s barely five.

“Sleep well,” she says softly, having been too tired to say anything much to him the night before. He mumbles a _you too_ before disappearing back into the hallway. She notices that he closes her door behind him, despite the fact that Ghost is still laying on her bed.

Turning to the huge white wolf, Sansa shakes her head.

“I’d forgotten you could open doors. What are you doing in here, hmm?” He sets his chin down on her thigh, eyes drifting shut. She continues to card her fingers through the thick fur on his neck, sleep once again tugging at her own eyelids. “Don’t you want to be with Jon? He’s missed you, you know.”

Ghost’s only reply is to huff a snore, and Sansa feels her lips curling in response to it. With the sound of his deep breathing, and the warm weight of him against her, she’s asleep again within seconds.

* * *

 

Sansa is not used to having a roommate.

Jon is there when she wakes up, and when she goes to bed. He seems to be trying to make his presence as unobtrusive as possible, but the last time she had a man about so much it was Joffrey. And those memories aren’t ones that endear her to their current situation.

“I’m going to take Ghost out.”

She looks up to see John clipping a harness across Ghost’s chest.

“It’s supposed to rain,” she says, for lack of anything more substantial. It’s been like this for the past two days that they’ve been home, quiet and not quite awkward not quite comfortable. Though she does appreciate that Jon isn’t one to force conversation or make small talk just for the sake of filling the silence.

“Well, the rain doesn’t bother us much.” She can see in his face that he’s thinking of Manchester, of _home_. The rain doesn’t bother her either, but a warning not to bring a muddy Ghost tracking back through her apartment sticks on the end of her tongue.

She swallows it. Jon’s already been so quiet, so clearly uncomfortable taking up space in her home that she can’t bring herself to say anything that might make him feel unwelcome. Sansa invited him here. She ought to do a better job of making him feel at home.

“Don’t catch cold,” she murmurs instead, and it reminds her of her mother, though a slightly softened version of what often came out as a warning rather than an endearment. His lips twitch, so briefly she wonders if she’s imagined it.

Clearly he’s thinking of Cat as well. But Sansa doubts his memories of her mother are as fond.

“Yes ma’am,” he replies, and it’s the lightest they’ve been with each other since he arrived. Once they’ve gone, she collapses back against her couch. She’d come home from work an hour earlier to find Jon at her stove, cooking something that filled her whole apartment with a smell that made her mouth water. The scene might have been domestic, if they were any other two people.

They lived together for years, but Sansa was so practiced at ignoring him then that she can hardly recall him in her memories of their family home. It doesn’t _feel_ like living with a brother. It’s not like having Robb or Bran or even Rickon to stay. It’s closer to living with a stranger than anything else.

When her phone rings, she’s so distracted by thoughts of her old life that she doesn’t check her call display before answering.

“Hello?”

The silence on the other end puts her immediately on edge. It’s too familiar.

“Hello?” She prompts again, waiting, _hoping_ it’s a telemarketer, waiting for that click while the call connects. It doesn’t come. She hangs up so fast her phone nearly slides out of her hand.

Ramsey. He wouldn’t dare call her now, not after-

The front door clicks open and Sansa is on her feet so abruptly that Jon, halfway into the entry, stops short.

“Sansa?” He says hesitantly, and she’s painfully aware of the fact that her hand is curled around a lamp like a baton. She relaxes her grip.

“Sorry, I-” She sets the lamp down. “I let Myrcella talk me into watching the new Alien movie and I’ve been a little jumpy,” she lies smoothly. He just quirks an eyebrow at her.

“I forgot to take my keys,” he says, and she holds in a sigh of relief. He grabs the spare set of keys she’d ordered for him yesterday off the hallway table. “You going to be alright here on your own? Wouldn’t want an alien to get you.”

It’s a joke. The first he’s made…maybe ever. Despite her still thrumming heart, Sansa smiles.

“I’ll be fine. I have the lamp.” She gestures at the one she just set down, and Jon chuckles, making his second exit without another word.

In the panic of Jon catching her, Sansa had almost forgotten why she was so on edge in the first place. Her fingers tap against the smooth glass of her phone, dialling a number she once memorized, one she’d never wanted to use again.

“It’s me,” she murmurs, ignoring the shiver that goes down her spine as the other party answers. “I need you to trace a call for me.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully y'all are okay with these shorter more frequent updates than like once a week in bigger chunks. Anywho. You MUST stop what you're doing and go listen to "Glory" by Dermot Kennedy, it gives me such incredible Jonsa feels and I've had it on repeat while writing. "Brothers" by Kodaline too.

“ _Who_ is that?”

It’s Margaery, of course, who first comments on Sansa’s new houseguest. The woman has lived above Sansa for years, and drops by from time to time to gossip about the building’s other residents and trade favours. This time when Sansa steps back to let her in, Jon is sitting at the kitchen island, eating a bowl of cereal and reading some dreadfully morose book about World War II.

Margaery’s perfectly manicured nails dig into Sansa’s arm.

“Margaery,” Sansa says with a sigh. “This is Jon Snow. He’s a family friend, and he’ll be staying with me for a few weeks. Jon, this is one of my neighbours, Margaery Tyrell.”

“It’s very nice to meet you,” Margaery says, extending a hand and a feline smile to the now slightly startled Jon. He takes her hand cautiously, a stray dark curl falling across his face and resting against the lens of his glasses. Sansa has to fight the urge to tuck it away, and to break the contact between the two.

“You as well,” Jon says, though he looks a little discomfited to be suddenly in the company of such a perfectly polished woman while he eats breakfast in his sweatpants.

“A family friend, you say,” Margaery turns back to Sansa. There’s a question in her eyes which Sansa could easily answer with a quick shake of head. She tells herself the reason she refrains is to protect Jon from what would certainly be unwanted advances. What an absurd pair the two would make.

“We grew up together,” Jon offers, and Sansa is a little surprised at his contribution. She’s been half expecting him to wolf down the rest of his cereal and retreat to the safety of his bedroom.

“Oh, how lovely.” Perfectly curved lips smile back at him. “In England? Sansa’s told me all about Winterfell, I’ve always said I’d love to see it. Nothing like the proper Northern cold to get the blood flowing.”

Sansa nearly snorts. The Tyrells are a family of hothouse roses, none of them like or even tolerate the cold for any extended period of time. She’d hate Winterfell. But then, it isn’t Winterfell she’s interested in so much as the hotblooded and ruggedly handsome Northerner currently munching on Mini Wheats in Sansa’s kitchen.

“Why don’t we go up to yours, Marg? I’m sure our gossiping will be of little interest to Jon.” Just as Sansa says it, Ghost appears, the sound of a visitor having brought him out. His great white head cocks curiously as he ambles up to the pair of women.

“Oh!” Margaery’s mouth falls open. “Hello. Who’s this?”

“That’s Ghost,” Jon says, saving Sansa from making the introduction. “He’s mine.”

Ghost just drops onto his hindquarters beside Sansa, making no move to further approach their guest. His cool greeting doesn’t go unnoticed. Margaery’s smile dips for a second before returning, and she shakes her head.

“That’s alright, you’re obviously busy. But drop by sometime this week, I have an update for you on that new tenant.”

Sansa promises to do so, seeing Margaery out before coming back to find Jon rinsing out his bowl in the sink.

“Sorry. I probably should have asked before just letting her in,” she murmurs, leaning against the counter as she watches him put his dishes in the dishwasher. He shakes his head without looking up.

“S’fine. It’s your place.” There’s a little tension in his shoulders, but Sansa can’t tell if it’s new, or if it’s just the same stress he always seems to carry. “Although I’m sure your neighbours aren’t used to seeing people like me in the building.”

He straightens up, and she catches it then, something in his eye. Something _is_ bothering him.

“People like you?” She asks, brow furrowing. Jon might be wearing a pair of tattered sweatpants but he’s hardly a vagrant, as Margaery’s recent interest illustrates.

“Never mind.” He moves to leave, but she finds herself in his path. His dark eyebrows go up in surprise.

“I want you to be comfortable, Jon.”

He blinks, and she has to mask her own surprise at the sincerity of her words.

“I am.” His words are genuine, too, though tinged with confusion. “Sansa, you’ve already done more for me than I could have expected. It’s fine.”

She catches her bottom lip between her teeth. It’s a sensation she hasn’t let herself feel in a long while, this uncertainty. The Sansa that built herself of steel and ice can’t afford it anymore. But Jon brings with him memories of her childhood, of who she used to be, memories she’s avoided for years. She avoids her family, both because she’s afraid they’ll notice the change in her and because being around them makes her _miss_ her old self in a way that aches almost unbearably. And now she’s invited Jon here, a live-in reminder of the people who are good and who loved her, the people who aren’t ever allowed to know her again.

It hurts, and it catches her off guard in moments like these. Gods, maybe she should have just let him stay with Theon.

When she doesn’t say anything, more because she’s finding it difficult to speak than because she has nothing to say, Jon speaks again.

“D’you know where #130 West 56th Street would be? I’ve got physio this week and it’s been ages since the last time I was in Manhattan.”

Sansa blinks at the sudden change of topic, and forces the tension in her gut to ebb away as she processes his words.

“I-yes. It’s one of those all-purpose medical buildings with a bunch of offices. I’ve been there before.” After Ramsey.“Rodrik can call a car to take you, if you let him know.”

Jon shifts uncomfortably.

“I’m sure I can walk, how far is it?”

She scoffs without meaning to.

“Far, Jon. My office is on the same block and it takes me almost twenty minutes to drive. You’re not in any shape to be walking that far.” Something occurs to her. “When’s the appointment?”

“Tomorrow,” he says, and as he shifts his weight again Sansa realizes his ribs must be hurting him. She has to clench her fists to keep from reaching out to put an arm around his waist. “At ten.”

“Perfect.” Sansa drops herself into one of the bar stools at the counter, hoping Jon will do the same. He does. “I can drop you off on my way to work. I usually come home for lunch anyways, so if you don’t mind waiting in my office for half an hour or so you can come back with me.” That’s a lie. She rarely eats lunch at all, let alone take the time to drive all the way back to her apartment. But Jon is so _stubborn_ and whether it’s the cost or the associated _poshness_ that’s deterring him from taking a town car, Sansa finds herself unwilling to let him walk to prove a point.

He glances at her, brow working slowly, as though he can read the lie on her face. But she’s fooled far more scrutinizing men than him, and eventually his expression softens.

“I don’t want to put you out-”

“I’m _offering,_ Jon. It’s not out of my way.”

Ghost rounds the corner, settling between them, and as two hands reach automatically for his head, they touch. Sansa pulls hers back, watching the tips of Jon’s ears turn pink. Deciding to take pity on him, she changes the subject.

“I need to do some shopping, do you need anything?” She’d run out the day after they got back to pick up some essentials, including food for Ghost, but they’re in desperate need of a more thorough grocery run. “Shaving cream, beer, pants?”

She adds the last one as a joke, eyes drifting to the pair of threadbare sweats still hanging low on his hips. Truth be told, she rather likes them on him. But they do look a little like they might fall off at any moment, and Sansa doesn’t need that kind of distraction.

Not that it would be. Distracting.

The corner of his lips tug briefly in a smile.

“Are you trying to tell me something? Is this because I frightened off your friend?”

Sansa has to cover her laugh with a cough.

“You couldn’t have frightened her off if you’d danced naked round the room.” She bites her lip, forcing the image away. “Actually, I’m fairly sure that would only have encouraged her.”

His ears flame red now, entirely surpassing their earlier pink, and his cheeks warm to match. Sansa can’t think of the last man who blushed in front of her. It’s adorable, and a little disarming.

“I should grab a shower,” he mutters, sliding to his feet. “Ought to take Ghost out.”

“Nothing from the store, then?” She calls after him, as he disappears down the hallway. His silence is answer enough.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slower updates! It's been a crazy couple days, I went from 0 to 2 tattoos and I'm a sore, happy girl. Alot of you are anxious to have Jon find out about Sansa's past, and so am I! 
> 
> This isn't that exactly but it's something to tide you over. :)

“Stop fussing.”

“I’m not-“ Jon cuts off with a sigh, letting his hands drop back into his lap from where they were tapping against the dash. “I don’t like doctors.”

Sansa glances over at him, noting the bags under his eyes. He doesn’t look like he slept much the night before.

“After all the time you spent in the hospital this will be nothing,” she assures him, though she knows from firsthand experience that it isn’t strictly true. After a particularly bad incident with Joffrey she’d had to go to physiotherapy to make sure her shoulder healed properly, and that had hurt nearly as much as the initial injury. And then of course, after Ramsay. It was amazing to her how long the recovery could be for so brief a torture.

He grunts.

“Besides, you want to go back to work, don’t you?” He’s only been staying with her for a few days and he already seems to be climbing the walls. “This will get you there faster.”

“I s’pose.”

Her lips curl as she turns them into the drive for the medical building. It reminds her so much of when they were children, Jon sulking like this. Whether it was because Ned was making him take riding lessons or Cat forcing a haircut on him, he’d never argue. Just sit silently, like he’s doing now, and cast his face down in that perfectly gloomy pout that makes his bottom lip stick out just a little. Sansa’s eyes linger a little too long there, on his mouth, and she snaps her attention back to driving just in time to avoid colliding with a car pulling out of their parking spot.

She brakes, hard, and Jon winces beside her.

“Sorry.”

Her hand is against his chest. She didn’t even realize she had done that, but she pulls it back slowly, stopping the car in front of the building’s steps.

“My office is just half a block down. I texted you the address.”

“You don’t have to drive me home, Sansa.”

“Jon,” she says, and his eyes narrow slightly at the familiar tone of her voice. Some things haven’t changed. They’re few and precious, and this is insignificant but it’s still one of them. “Don’t argue.”

The side of his mouth twitches, but he nods. That’s familiar too, Jon doing what he’s told. Robb was always the bad one; Sansa always suspected that Jon was too afraid of wearing out his welcome to test their parents with outright disobedience.

What a sad way to be, she used to think, before her mother’s disinterest became her own. Believing love is conditional like that.

And now that she knows what it’s like, the guilt in her stomach grows. There were days when Sansa didn’t exist as anything other than a series of decisions that wouldn’t anger Joffrey. Weeks.

Did Jon feel like that? She hopes not. He gives her a last, somber smile, then leaves. She watches him go, waiting until he disappears inside to drive away.

* * *

 

“It was Bolton.” The words hang like a sentencing over the phone line. “Though I daresay you already knew that.” Petyr’s voice grates at her, soft and oily. He makes her uncomfortable in a way few can anymore, but he’s a necessary evil.

“I had hoped I was wrong,” she says with a sigh.

“My dear Sansa,” Petyr says, and she can almost hear the smug concern on his face. “Your instincts are sharp, more so than most. Doubting them does you no favours.”

“Thank you.” She says it because it’s what he’d expect. Then, working to keep the accusation out of her voice., “I thought you took care of Ramsay. That he wouldn’t be contacting me again.”

Honestly, she’d half-wondered of Petyr Baelish’s method of “taking care of things” wasn’t simply a cinder block and a rowboat in the ocean when Ramsay had stopped contacting her. Not that she’d lost sleep over that possibility. If anything, it gave her peace of mind that he couldn’t make good on the threats he’d carved into her along with the scars.

“I did. But there have been…new developments.” She doesn’t like the sound of that. “It would be best if you could come to my office to discuss this. I doubt that wherever you are currently is as secure as you think. Besides, I have news that is not appropriate to be delivered over the phone.”

She _really_ doesn’t like the sound of that. But he’s right. She’s sitting at the desk in her office, and Jon is due to show up at any moment.

“Alright. I’ll come by this evening.”

He voices his agreement, and Sansa sets her phone down just in time to hear Myrcella knocking at her door.

“Come in,” she calls. Her assistant pokes her blonde head into the room, wide blue eyes apologetic.

“I’m sorry, were you on the phone?”

“I was,” Sansa waves a hand, gesturing that it’s alright to enter. “But I’m finished. What do you need?”

The girl is so sweet that it’s bizarre to think she’s related to the sociopath that is Joffrey. Sansa hadn’t know that they were cousins until after Myrcella had accepted the job, and since it was meant to be a temporary position it hadn’t seemed worth it to fire her. But it seems the difference in being raised by Jamie Lannister rather than Cersei is stark, and despite the cousins resembling each other in looks, Myrcella couldn’t be less like Joffrey if she tried.

“You have a visitor. Jon?”

“Oh,” she gets to her feet, swiping her bag and coat off the back of her chair. “Yes. Come on, I’ll introduce you.” They make their way back to reception, and Sansa sees Jon standing stiffly off to the side, gazing out the wall of the glass that makes up the buildings exterior. He looks up at the sound of their entrance, and something in his posture relaxes the tiniest amount.

Sansa isn’t sure why that pleases her.

“Jon, this is my assistant, Myrcella Lannister. Myrcella, this is my-Jon.” Beneath a thin layer of makeup, Sansa feels her cheeks heat as she stumbles over the word _brother_. Thankfully, they don’t seem to notice. “He’s staying with me for a few weeks.”

The younger girl smiles brightly up at Jon, and holds out a hand.

“It’s nice to meet you. Glad to see you’re feeling better.”

His eyebrows go up at that, for reasons Sansa can’t puzzle out, and he takes the offered hand.

“Ah, thanks.” Something said earlier seems to occur to him. “Lannister…” His gaze slides over to Sansa, a question in them.

“Cersei is my Aunt.” Myrcella tells him.

“Joffrey is her cousin.” Sansa adds, knowing what he’s really wondering. Something in his expression darkens, but it’s gone so quickly she can’t be sure it was there at all. Myrcella sees the exchange, the smile on her face dimming.

They don’t know, really. Sansa can count the number of people who know the extent of her relationship with Joffrey on one hand. Petyr, her attorney, is one of them. Her trainer is another. But Jon and Myrcella are too close, and as such, have been kept as far in the dark as Sansa could manage.

She could never hide that Joff was an ass, though. It’s common knowledge in their circles, and Robb has always hated him. Sansa wasn’t aware that Jon _had_ an opinion, though she’s beginning to suspect that he does. Myrcella, for her part, has always tried to see the best in her cousin. Their parents are close, even for twins, so Sansa can’t fault her for it, though she does pity her assistant, sometimes, for looking for good in someone so thoroughly ruined.

“Ah.” Jon says eventually. Then, remembering his manners, “Sorry, it’s nice to meet you as well. Physio was a bit rough, I’m a bit out of sorts.”

The smile flickers back. How the girl can be so sunny while surrounded by the poison of her family, Sansa wonders daily.

“Oooh, I had to do physio after my base dropped me once, that wasn’t fun.” Her voice drops with genuine concern, but Jon just looks puzzled.

“Cheerleading,” Sansa provides, lips twitching. “Her base is the boy who would throw and catch her.”

“Right, sorry. I was a flyer.” She strikes a little pose, and Sansa shakes her head, biting down the smile. Then the blonde turns back to her. “But you’ve been more than me. You should have seen her after the car accident.” Her big blue eyes widen as she obviously remembers the way Sansa had looked the first day she’d made it back to the office after Ramsay. She’d already had two weeks to heal at that point, but her appearance had been enough to bring tears to the eyes of her softhearted assistant. It was regrettable that her coworkers had seen her like that, but she’d brushed it off as a car accident. It wouldn’t have done to hide out for a month, and even then some of the scars still lingered.

The ones inside her will never go away.

“Car accident?”

Sansa comes back to herself and sees Jon frowning at her.

“Yeah, last spring.” When no comprehension dawns, it’s Myrcella’s turn to frown, and the expression is alien on her face. “Surely you remember, it was pretty bad, she almost-”

“I didn’t know,” Jon says shortly, and there is no mistaking the accusation in his words. Or his glare.

“We should go,” Sansa murmurs. “Myrcella, I’ll be back around seven to drop off the financials from the DA event.”

“Okay,” the younger woman still seems a little confused, but nods. “Should I stay?”

“No, no. Just tell Louis to leave the lights on.” The blonde skitters away, and Sansa clears her throat, aware of the way Jon is watching her. “Shall we?”

He follows her silently, not saying a word as they make their way to the elevator, nor when they climb into her car in the garage.

She breaks the silence, hoping to distract him.

“So, how was your appointment?”

“Sore.”

Silence falls. It follows them back up to the apartment, and when Ghost appears at the sound of their entrance, Sansa is startled that he steps away from her touch.

He’s never done that before.

“Jon.” She says. He stops, already halfway to the hallway. “Just ask.”

The voice in her head is screaming, the walls she’s built around herself straining under the weight of the sudden desire to not be so _alone_ anymore.

She can’t let him in.

But she wants to. And the words are already out.

He turns, slowly, face impassive.

“Did you tell Robb not to tell me?” He asks. That takes her by surprise, and a few seconds tick by before she wrap her mind around it enough to respond.

“What? Of course not.”

“So he just didn’t mention it, then. That our-his sister had nearly been killed in a car accident.” His jaw sharpens, like steel. “Because he thought I wouldn’t care?”

The implication is obvious. Robb wouldn’t have kept it from him unless Sansa asked him to. Why he thinks she’d ask her brother to do that-

“Why did you bring me here?” He wonders, frustration bubbling over. “If you want so badly to keep me out of your life?”

Ah. Now she sees. And the realization hurts in it’s nearness to the truth.

“He doesn’t know,” she says quietly, taking in the sight of Ghost at Jon’s heels. She’s never felt the loneliness quite so acutely as this moment, when even he has distanced himself from her. Jon scowls.

“Doesn’t know what?”

“He doesn’t know I was in an accident.” Sansa decides she needs a glass of wine, and pulls a bottle and two glass from her cupboard. She fills one, then glances up at Jon. He doesn’t shake his head, and it’s answer enough. “He doesn’t know. None of them do. Myrcella only knows because I had to take some time off, after, and it was…impossible to hide once I’d gone back.”

He’s staring at her when she offers him the glass, so she just sets it on the counter in front of him, settling in one of the bar stools.

“You- _why_?” He asks, bafflement stretching his features. “Why on earth would you not tell your family?”

His confusion is justified. The Starks are unusually close, as their presence at his own hospital bed would suggest. For Sansa, the princess, they’d have all but smothered her in support.

And she can’t tell him the real reason. Not without the story that goes with it.

“I can take care of myself.” She hears herself saying instead. “I didn’t want to worry them.” Both true statements. He gapes at her.

“Robb would shit himself if he found out now. Catelyn would…”

“I _know_ ,” Sansa says, “-and I-“

“Don’t want me to tell them either,” he guesses, finally dropping onto the stool next to her. “Sansa, that’s mad.”

“Jon, please-”

“I won’t tell them,” his fingers curl around the stem of his wineglass, and he looks over at her. His brown eyes are dark, with nothing Sansa can read, dark hair tied back in what Joffrey would have disdainfully referred to as a “man bun”. It suits him, though, exposing the strong planes of his face, the surprisingly long lashes that frame his eyes.

He’s really kind of beautiful, she thinks, and shifts uncomfortably in her chair at how far from objectively she notices that.

“Thank you.” If she’s breathless, it’s with relief. Nothing else. “I know you don’t understand. I don’t expect you to. But telling them now would only start an argument.”

He doesn’t disagree with her. Not aloud, anyway.

“I should’t have…” He glances over at her again, this time after downing half the drink in front of him. Sansa has never seen him drink wine, but she suspects he cares little about what exactly it is as long as it has alcohol in it. She knows the feeling. “I’m sorry I was cross. I shouldn’t have said…”

“It’s alright,” she says. It isn’t, but that’s not his fault. “It’s…I deserved it, honestly. When we were younger I did try to keep you out of my life. I know it doesn’t change anything, but I’m sorry for it. I shouldn’t have.”

“We were children,” he murmurs, and this conversation is beginning to feel familiar. She stares hard at him, wondering why her chest suddenly aches.

“We aren’t anymore.” And it’s not the wine, or the time that’s passed that makes the difference. Not really. She’s bought her age with blood, Jon with loss.

What a tragic pair they make.

“No,” Jon agrees, sounding wistful and a little relieved all at once. “We’re not.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I just say, you all are amazing? Your comments have been amazing and I appreciate it so much. I'm gonna go through and try to respond to some of the questions tomorrow <3
> 
> FYI - This chapter has mentions of what happened with Sansa and Ramsey, it's brief and nothing more than the show had, but just a warning.

Sansa has never been particularly prone to deja vu. But now, sitting in Petyr Baelish’s office, his silver streaked dark hair all but glowing in lighting a little too low to be professional, his words trigger a memory so strong she’s almost lost in it.

-

_“I can still feel what he did, inside of me.”_

_Petyr blinks at her, mouth opening to form a response._

_“And I don’t mean in my tender heart, it pains me so,” she hisses, watching the forced sympathy drain from his eyes. “I can still_ feel _it.”_

_Understanding clicks, followed by revulsion._

_“Yet you aren’t pressing charges,” he says softly, testing her. Sansa has learned to recognize that by now. She’s entirely repulsed by him. And yet, in many ways, he’s the reason she’s still here._

_“We both know his father would make sure they didn’t stick. Roose Bolton would paint me as the spurred society girl, lashing out after being rejected. He has the friends to make that story reality, as far as the public is concerned.”_

_Petyr smiles at her, almost proudly._

_“True. So what is it that you wish for me to do?”_

_“He-I don’t want to hear from him ever again. He’s not to contact me, and my family…” The threat Ramsey made as he slid a blade along her inner thigh, followed by something softer, but just as sharp in it’s ugliness, flashes into her mind. The way her sister’s name on his lips instilled a fear in her that she’d thought was no longer possible after Ramsey first forced himself on her._ “ _They’ll_ never _know, and he will never so much as lay eyes on them. Can you do that?”_

_She’s asking him to barter a treaty with the man who violated every inch of her body, who carved his mark into her skin and soaked his sheets with her own blood. His eyebrows go up._

_“Your silence for his. I imagine that will cost you far more than him.” It isn’t an even trade, is what he’s saying. Ever the businessman._

_“Can you do it?” She repeats, ignoring his sentiment. The damage is done. She will never again be who she was. All there is left to do now is make sure the shame and blood and wreck of it all is contained._

_“I believe so. If that is truly what you want.”_

_-_

“Sansa?” She startles. “Are you sure you wish to go through with this?”

She blinks at Baelish, resenting the opportunity to give in to her weakness. The temptation is there, but she pushes it aside.

“I’m sure that it is the _only_ option,” she says firmly. That her wishes have nothing to do with it is left unsaid. “Send me the bill. And I trust you’ll keep my involvement in this to yourself.”

He holds up a hand in promise.

“Of course. You have my utmost discretion.” _For whatever that’s worth_ , she thinks.

“Thank you. I should go.” She stands, mind whirling with all the horrific revelations of their meeting. Another girl, a redhead, murdered. The last one to see her was Ramsey, and she was missing for nearly two weeks before her body was found. Violated and mutilated.

“You…took my advice, I hope.” Petyr’s voice trails after her as she makes for the door. “About protecting yourself.”

“I have,” she says, thinking of the gun in her nightstand and the one in her car, and the muscles she’s torn and twisted into iron under her skin. But his words are a warning as much as anything else, and by the time she makes it to her car she’s already dialled Brienne’s number.

“Haven’t heard from you in a while,” the familiar voice fills her car, and with it comes a sense of security that is rare in her life. “Everything alright?”

“Not really,” Sansa says. She doesn’t elaborate. She’s a little afraid she’ll break if she does. “I was hoping you could meet me tomorrow, after work.”

“Yeah,” Brienne agrees easily. The woman was one of the first people Sansa let herself trust after Joffrey, and one of the only reasons she managed to hold onto her sanity after Ramsey. “Sure. Should I come to you, or-”

“Your place,” Sansa says. “I have a houseguest.” The pause in conversation is filled with Brienne’s surprise, but it barely registers in the wake of everything that’s happened.

“Alright. Around six thirty?”

“Okay,” Sansa says, and suddenly it’s a little easier to breathe. “Thank you.”

The world is spinning around the edges, the way it used to, and Sansa did not _ever_ think she would have to do this again.

The thought of getting her ass kicked by Brienne cheers up a little.

Gods, some days she can’t remember who she’s supposed to be at all.

* * *

“You’ve let yourself get out of practice.”

“I know,” Sansa says, and she does. It scares the nerves on every inch of her body back to life. She’s buzzing with it, the adrenaline, and the endorphins, and the pain.

“But you’re here now,” Brienne adds, like she can see the weight of her words on Sansa’s chest. She doesn’t ask _why_ , but Sansa hears it anyways.

“He’s back.” It feels good and horrifying to be able to say that out loud, and bile rises in her throat. “He killed someone. He called me.”

Brienne knows everything. It came out, like an exorcism, a few weeks after she started training Sansa. She’d said something about not having the time to train another high society girl who doesn’t have the drive to learn, _really_ learn, and that had been-

Well. A loss of control Sansa could not really afford. But for once, the mistake didn’t come back to wrap around her throat at night, and now there’s someone who knows. Someone Sansa considers a friend.

“What are you going to do?”

The blonde towers over her, piercing blue eyes sharp with concern, and hatred. Brienne has no tolerance for bullies, or men in general. She especially despises men who are cruel to women.

“I’m going to find out who else he’s done this to. I’m going to pile up the evidence against him, and when there is too much for Roose Bolton to sweep under the rug, I’m going to expose him.”

Brienne stills. It’s an unnerving trait, how still she can be, like the statue of some towering Amazonian warrior. It’s also her tell. She doesn’t like the plan.

“That sounds dangerous. Surely the Boltons never stopped watching you. They’ll know if you suddenly start poking around in Ramsey’s past.”

All true words. But-

“I can’t do _nothing_ , Brienne. This is better than that.”

The look on her friend’s face suggests she doesn’t agree.

“You could go forward, just you, before they have time to-”

“That would be no less dangerous,” Sansa says tiredly, scrubbing an aching hand across her face. There are cuts and bruises she hopes no one will notice already beginning to form along her knuckles. “And much less effective. Roose would discredit me and twist the story to make Ramsey the victim, and me some sort of jilted lover.” She stands. “I should get going. Jon will wonder where I am.”

Two blonde eyebrows go up.

“Right. Your ‘houseguest’.” The way she says it sounds like something else.

“He’s my brother,” Sansa mutters, though it sounds and feels like a lie. “Or near enough.”

“Hmph.” Her trainer sniffs disbelievingly. “Well, it’s probably for the best that you’re not on your own right now. You know,” her gaze softens, “Podrik keeps bothering me to go to that bar with that blonde bartender. If you came, you could bring your friend.”

The offer is so uncharacteristic that it takes a moment for Sansa to wrap her mind around it.

“You-“ Comprehension dawns. “You just want to meet to Jon so you can tell me you don’t trust him.”

Brienne shifts uncomfortably.

“You’ve been…eager to see the best of people in the past. And even now, with that Baelish man-I just want to make sure he’s not…the same.”

Jon, like Joffrey? Like _Ramsey_? They may have their differences, but he’s good in a way even Sansa doesn’t really understand.

“Jon isn't Joffrey.” She says, shaking her head. “Jon isn't Ramsey, or Roose or Petyr for that matter. Jon is Jon. He’s…my brother.” It doesn’t feel like a lie so much this time, in that she means it as a matter of the unbreakable bond that chains all the Starks together. “He'll keep me safe, as much as anyone can. I trust him.”

Her words almost seem to be enough. With a grudging sigh, she relents.

“I’ll ask him if he’d like to go. But he’s about as social as you are, so don’t get your hopes up.”

Looking completely unbothered by the dig, Brienne shrugs.

“Alright. If you decide to come, let Podrik know. I can never remember the name of the place.”

Sansa hums a confirmation, and slings her bag over her shoulder. It’s heavy now, with the weight of her gloves and the batons Brienne got her to practice with. It had seemed like overkill at the time, but the trainer had insisted.

_“You don’t get to choose what’s around in a real fight. You use what you have. At least with these you’ll learn how to properly hit someone over the head with it.”_

All this had started out of fear, eventually turning to a promise, after Ramsey. As though hardening her body would also protect her brittle heart. She’d almost stopped believing she really needed it, until now.

* * *

She tries to minimize her wincing as she walks through the front door, cursing herself for pushing so hard. And also for not pushing hard enough the past few months. Maybe Jon will be in his room and won’t see her come in.

“Hi, I-” Jon’s voice cuts out as he takes in her appearance. Of course, he was waiting in the living room for her. His eyes scan her workout gear, the sweat plastering auburn curls to her forehead. “Oh. Good workout?”

She’d said she was going to the gym. It was more or less true.

“Uh, yeah.” She’s careful not to set her bag down, just in case. “I didn’t realize how out of shape I’d gotten.”

Skepticism settles on his face at that, and as vain as it is, Sansa appreciates that.

“I, uh, made beef stew. If you’re hungry. It’s not exactly gourmet, but-”

“That sounds perfect,” She cuts him off with a longing sigh. After the punishment she’s just put her body through, the meaty, savoury scent drifting in from the kitchen smells lovely. “Have you eaten already?”

He shakes his head, loose curls framing his face.

She almost says _I hope you weren’t waiting for me_ , but of course he was. And mentioning it will only make him uncomfortable.

“I really need a shower. You should start without me.” Part of her wants to ladle stew directly into her mouth, she’s starving, but it would hardly be ladylike. Jon shifts his weight, frowning.

“I wanted to…talk. I can wait for you.” The words seem ominous to her, falling like stones into her stomach and Sansa can’t decide if that’s simply her past projecting itself into his mouth.

She blinks, swallowing the knot forming in her throat.

“Alright. I’ll be quick then.”

She is, though the the hot water feels blissful against muscles that are going to punish her in the morning. By the time she comes out, Jon has already set two bowls on the table, and steam rises off them, the salty smell making her mouth water. Jon looks up, and she feels suddenly vulnerable like this, bare faced, hair still wet from the shower.

But then he looks back at the table, and she remembers that this is Jon, and that she shouldn’t care what she looks like. It’s not like he cares, after all.

“This smells amazing,” She slides into her usual seat, realizing as she does so that this is the first time they’ve actually eaten a meal together since they both lived at home. Jon sits when she does, still looking vaguely uncomfortable in a way that has her palms beginning to sweat. “You didn’t have to do this.”

He shrugs, waiting until Sansa takes a spoonful to do the same.

“It’s the least I can do. It’s not fancy, but…”

“It’s delicious,” she assures him honestly, savouring the rich flavour as it rolls over her tongue. The small crease in his forehead relaxes as he watches her take another big bite. “What did you want to talk about?”

There’s a split second where he hesitates, expression freezing in place. It does nothing to assuage the nerves curling in her belly. Then he looks back at his bowl, eyebrows drawing together. The frown worries her less, it’s so familiar.

“I didn’t think…It might be a little longer than I thought before I can go home.” His words tumble out messily, like he’s still not quite sure they’re the ones he wants. Sansa blinks.

“Oh.” She’s not entirely sure what that means, given that she was never really sure how long he was supposed to be staying in the first place. She can’t imagine he wants to be away from work any longer than he has to, so she was never concerned about him overstaying his welcome. “Well, that’s alright.”

Jon’s eyes sweep over her face, and it feels like a physical thing then, his gaze. It’s as though she can feel it on her skin, reading her like braille, looking for a lie.

“You don’t want to know for how long?” He asks eventually, apparently unable to find anything other than honesty in her reaction. She shrugs.

“I assume you’re going to tell me. But I’m not particularly concerned about it, no.” She says, spearing a carrot on the end of her fork. The stew is good, and she wants more than anything else to curl up on the couch with a book, but this seems important to Jon, and she’ll do what she can to ease his worry that he’s imposing.

“Two months.” Something about that seems significant, though Sansa can’t put her finger on it. When she just waits, he adds, “He doesn’t think I’ll be in shape to go back until after Christmas.”

Ah. While that _is_ a little longer than she’d initially anticipated, the recent situation with Ramsey makes Jon’s presence even more welcome than when she’d first invited him. And as much as she sometimes finds herself laced up and brittle in the company of others, the past few days have been easier than she’d expected. Jon represents family, something Sansa has missed since quarantining herself from the rest of the Starks, but he’s just distant enough not to pose a threat of exposure.

He didn’t know her well enough before to understand how much she’s changed. Her treatment of him when they were children surely makes her cool demeanour familiar to him.

She’s avoided the past two Christmases at the Stark household, much to the disappointment of her parents. It feels too much like being under a microscope back home. The feeling of being watched seems to follow her around the manor, as though all the rest of them are trying to puzzle out what exactly it is that has changed so much about her.

And though she promised to go home this year, she’ll certainly have to if Jon is still staying with her.

“The doctor had said it might be that long,” she reminds him, when the expectant silence begins to stretch on. “I know you were hoping you’d be back at work earlier than that, though. I’m sure you’re disappointed.”

“I-“ he opens his mouth, frown deepening. “Yeah. But that’s a long time to have a houseguest, and I don’t expect you to-“

“Jon.” Sansa sets her spoon down a little more forcefully than intended, and they both seem to startle a little at the noise. “If I minded having you here, you’d know. And I wouldn’t have invited you in the first place.” He makes an unsure noise in the back of his throat, and she sighs. “Besides, when have you know me to do anything I didn’t want to?”

 _Aside from last night_ , she thinks. But he doesn’t know that. His brow unfurrows, just a little.

“Alright,” he mumbles hesitantly. “I just-I appreciate it, is all. I’ve been told I’m not great at showing that.”

“Or any emotion at all, aside from brooding, I expect,” Sansa murmurs, lips twitching. “You’re fine, Jon. I know you appreciate it, and I really don’t mind. It’s kind of nice, actually.” It surprises her when she finds she means that.

Something resembling a smile tugs at his lips as well.

“Can’t imagine who you’ve been hanging out lately if Ghost and I pass for decent company,” he jokes. Sansa’s gut seizes, but she doesn’t let her easy expression falter.

“Speaking of company,” she suddenly remembers Brienne’s invitation. “A friend of mine invited us out for drinks tonight, if you’re up for it.”

Surprise flits across his face, followed by confusion.

“Us?”

She nods.

“Brienne wants to meet you. She can be…protective. I’m sure she’s half hoping you’re some sort of rogue she can forcibly evict from my flat.” His eyebrows go up. “But it will just be her and Podrik, and they’re both fairly…reserved. It wouldn’t be much more than a few drinks I’m sure. Only if you want, though. I can tell her I have to finish a proposal if you don’t want to go.”

“ _Do_ you have a proposal to write?” He asks, and Sansa gets the sense he’s stalling for time. She waves a hand dismissively.

“There’s always a proposal or an expense report that needs to be done. But this one isn’t urgent.”

To give him time to think about it, she gets to her feet, walking over to the stove and serving herself another small bowl of stew.

“Would it be alright if I invited someone?”

The quick jolt of displeasure in Sansa’s stomach surprises her.

“Of course.” She forces indifference as she sits back down. “Did you meet someone at your appointment? You certainly work fast.”

The words sound like an accusation, to her mortification. Why should she care who Jon invites to drinks?

And why does she care so _much_?

But he just shakes his head, oblivious. Thank the gods for small miracles.

“An old friend. We went to school together, but he ended up moving out here to become a teacher instead. I’ve been meaning to see him, since I’m here.” His voice is fond, with a warmth that tugs at something low in her belly. It’s not that she didn’t know he _had_ friends other than Robb, but it’s strange to think about sad, brooding Jon in a social setting.

“You should invite him,” Sansa says again, this time more sincerely. “I can’t promise Brienne won’t interrogate the pair of you, but Podrik is friendly enough for all three of us.”

“Alright,” Jon says around a mouthful of stew. “I’ll text him. Where are we meeting your friends?”

“I’ll have to ask Podrik,” she realizes. “I’ll let you know.”

The silence falls again, but this time it’s comfortable, and it hits her then how quickly she’s gotten used to his presence.

Two months. And then it will just be Sansa, the quiet, and her demons again.


	12. Chapter 12

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sansa mutters, waving away Jon’s outstretched hand and the bills fisted in it. “It’s fine.”

He huffs, but shoves the money back in his wallet, stepping out of the cab and onto the street. Sansa blinks when he leans back down and offers the same hand again. It’s been a long time since a man has done that for her. Nonetheless, she takes it, unfolding herself as she slides free of the car. The air has that sharp winter bite, cutting through her jeans and jacket in the short walk to the bar’s front door.

It’s loud inside, but with the chattering din of a pub rather than the mind numbing music that filled the clubs Joffrey used to drag her out to. She spots Brienne immediately, the blonde towering half a foot over the others around her. Sansa’s hand closes around Jon’s arm without thinking, and she half drags him over to the table where Brienne and Podrik are waiting.

“Busy night,” Sansa murmurs as greeting, shrugging out of her black wool peacoat. Jon hovers at her hip, and she nods at him. “Brienne, Pod, this is Jon. Jon this is Brienne, and Podrik.”

They all exchange a silent nod of acknowledgment, Brienne’s eyes narrowing as she takes Jon in. Sansa tries to look at him objectively, wondering what her friends are seeing as the first man she’s ever really invited into her life platonically.

He showered just before they left, his dark curls pulled into a bun at the nape of his neck. He’s wearing an outfit that, now Sansa thinks of it, is nearly identical to her own. Dark jeans and a grey jumper to her grey blouse. The coincidence doesn’t go unnoticed by the others, if they quick quirk of Pod’s eyebrows are any indication. Brienne seems more interested in staring him down, and Sansa eventually clears her throat, breaking the tension.

“It’s nice to meet you, Jon. I was a little surprised to hear Sansa had a houseguest,” the tall woman says, relenting long enough to curl her hand around a tankard of beer.

“But you seem normal,” Podrik adds, as though trying to lessen the intensity of Brienne’s academic glare. Sansa snorts.

“He hasn’t _spoken_ yet.” She says with a sigh. “Now, leave him alone. Do you want a drink, Jon? You might need one if Brienne is going to stare at you all night.”

He seems to suddenly remember his voice.

“Ah, yeah. I’ll get them. What’ll you have?”

He seems a little uncomfortable, so she doesn’t fight him on it.

“Club soda.”

He raises an eyebrow. Podrik catches the movement.

“Sansa doesn’t drink,” he explains, which only seems to bewilder Jon.

“In public,” She clarifies realizing he’s thinking of the past two nights in the apartment. “I don’t drink when I’m out.”

If he finds that strange he doesn’t comment on it, asking the others if they need another round and then disappearing back to the bar.

“He seems quiet,” Brienne observes, “And he’s very _pretty_.”

Clearly, she doesn’t mean it as a compliment. Sansa sighs again.

“He’s just like that. He invited a friend, as well, they’re meeting us here.”

“Hm.” Brienne says. But she lets it go for the time being. Jon reappears a few minutes later, a beer in one hand, a soda in the other. When Sansa takes it, her shoulder twinges, and a hiss escapes before she can swallow it. He frowns at her, concerned.

“I’m fine,” she murmurs, raising the glass to her lips. “Just sore.”

At that Brienne, grunts.

“You wouldn’t be, if you hadn’t let yourself get out of practice.”

Sansa waves her off, but Jon looks curiously between the two.

“Do you two do yoga or something together?”

Podrik snorts so hard beer shoots out of his nose. Brienne looks scandalized, and even Sansa can’t help a smile, despite to sudden look of discomfort on Jon’s face at his mistake.

“Um, not exactly.” She hadn’t really wanted to tell him about the combat training, no doubt he’ll find it suspicious. But she should have known that bringing him out tonight would have brought all her secrets dangerously close to the surface. “Brienne’s my trainer.”

“Mixed martial arts,” Brienne adds. It’s true only in that she does, in fact, train Sansa in a variety of Martial Arts as well as weaponry. But it’s less conspicuous than the whole truth, which would be something like ‘101 ways to kill a man’.

Jon’s eyebrows climb so far up his forehead Sansa thinks they might be in danger of connecting with his hairline.

“I didn’t…” he pauses as though searching for words less offensive than the ones the surely came to him immediately. “I didn’t realize you were into that sort of thing,” he finally finishes. The air at the table shifts just slightly, and you wouldn’t see it unless you knew to look. Brienne stiffens, Podrik’s easy smile turning the subtle side of sad.

Jon doesn’t seem to notice, thank the gods.

“No, I suppose that was always Arya’s thing,” Sansa says easily. “But it’s a good way to stay in shape, and more useful than something like aerobics.”

His frown eases a little. Brienne speaks up before he can reply.

“How do you two know each other?” Her voice is sharp, and Sansa has to stifle her sigh. There will be more questions, later, when Jon isn’t around.

“I, uh, grew up with the Starks,” Jon says hesitantly. “Sansa’s parents took me in when my mother died. She had been married to Sansa’s uncle.”

“So you’re cousins,” Podrik guesses, looking a little confused. Sansa shakes her head.

“Not by blood. Jon’s father was-“

“Not her uncle.” He says roughly, sparing her from having to explain further. Without meaning to, Sansa settles a hand on his arm.

“Anyway, he’s family.” She gives it a quick squeeze, and takes a sip of her drink, not missing the look on his face. The wistfulness there surprises her. When she looks back at Brienne, the blonde is frowning, puzzled.

“So you’re close?” She presses. Sansa bristles.

“I was always closer to Robb, Sansa’s brother.” Again, Jon jumps in to save her. “Sansa and I were pretty different as kids.”

This seems to appease Brienne.

Any further conversation is interrupted when a round, pink faced man approaches the table, face lighting up when he sees Jon.

“Jon!” He shouts, pulling Jon into an embrace. Sansa’s eyes widen in surprise, unsure if she’s ever seen Jon hug anyone before. But to her great shock, he hugs the man back, patting him roughly on the back. It’s a little awkward, but clearly genuine, and her curiosity about who this friend has her leaning forward.

When they break apart, Jon turns back to the table.

“This is Sam. Sam this is Brienne, Podrik and Sansa.”

Sam beams at all of them as they’re introduced, but his eyes go round when his gaze falls on Sansa.

“Um,” she says hesitantly. “Hello.”

He seems to recover at her words, blinking as an embarrassed flush creeps up his neck.

“I’m sorry, that was a bit rude of me,” he mumbles, glancing between Sansa and Jon. “I just-thought you were someone else, hat’s all.”

She shrugs easily, attempting to put him at ease.

“It happens to all of us. Can I get you a drink, Sam?”

“Sure,” he stammers, and Sansa finds herself warming to him. His eyes are kind, and his affection for Jon is precious in it’s rarity. “A beer would be nice. Anything on tap.”

“Alright,” she flashes him a warm smile, the one that used to get her things other people weren’t allowed to have, and Sam’s blush turns scarlet. Jon notices it, smile turning wry, and Sansa turns to pick her way back to the bar.

When she gets back, Sam is talking about his first graders.

“-they don’t listen very well, honestly, but-oh, thank you.” He takes the pint of beer with a sincere smile, and launches back into a recounting of the time one of his students went into a diabetic coma during nap time.

The rest of the evening passes without incident, Brienne occasionally interjecting into Sam and Jon’s stories while Podrik eyes the busty bartender.

It would almost feel normal, if Sansa could remember what that was like.

* * *

When they get home, Sansa collapses onto the couch. Ghost tries to climb up beside her, but Jon nudges him out of the way in order to sit down.

“I’m exhausted,” she mumbles, letting her head loll back. “I love Brienne, but she’s-”

“A bit intense, yeah. I noticed,” Jon says, dropping onto the couch beside her. He sounds about as tired as she feels.

Sansa sighs, looking over at him through hooded eyes.

“I’m sorry about that. She means well.”

He shrugs.

“I s’pose it’s nice that you have someone to look out for you. I know Robb worries about it sometimes, especially after you broke up with Joffrey.”

Fighting the impulse to stiffen, Sansa frowns.

“I don’t need anyone to look after me,” she murmurs. He raises an eyebrow.

“I didn’t say you did.”

She huffs defensively, letting her hand drop to rest on the head of Ghost, who has lain down at her feet. He closes his eyes when she scratches, and Jon watches the interaction distractedly.

“I like Sam,” she says eventually, though the silence was surprisingly comfortable. “He seems sweet.”

Jon’s eyes travel back up to meet hers, and he dips his head in the briefest nod.

“He’s probably the best man I know.” He looks thoughtful for a moment, and Sansa begins to wonder if she’s lost him. “It’s good to see him happy.”

There’s more in that statement than what he says, but she doesn’t ask. After everything, Sansa knows when pushing will do more harm than good.

“I didn’t even know you had friends that weren’t Robb,” she mumbles sleepily into her arm, flushing when she realizes what she’s said. But when she opens an eye to glance wearily over at Jon, he only looks amused.

“There aren’t many.” She can’t help but notice that the admission doesn’t hold an ounce of regret. “And what about you?”

Confused, she twists so as to face him with her frown.

“What _about_ me?”

He looks caught out, for some reason.

“You just…your friends are different than I expected. They’re not like the ones I remember you hanging around with in high school.”

Ah.

“Yeah, I guess.” She breaks his gaze, looking past him to the wall. “We’re different people now, though.”

She doesn’t miss the curious look he gives her then, but ignores it.

“I used to think you’d marry some rich twat and move to France,” he says suddenly. Sansa raises an eyebrow. “Like Joffrey.”

“God,” she mutters. “I used to think so, too.”

“And now?” He asks, tugging his bun down so his hair falls around his temples. Her mouth goes dry, though she’s not sure why.

“Now I have no plans to marry a rich twat and move to France,” she muses, letting her eyes drift shut again. He chuckles, and she can feel the vibration of it through the couch beneath her.

“Well, I’m glad you didn’t marry Joffrey,” he says, and it feels like _something_ for no reason at all, but she can’t shake it as it lodges in her head like a shot of whiskey.

“Me too,” she says, and she means it. Heat stings behind her eyelids and she wills it away, as she’s been doing for years. It’s not supposed to feel safe like this with Jon. He isn’t supposed to make her want to tell him all the things that have happened to her and cry on the couch until her eyes run dry and her head hurts. He isn’t supposed to be _important_.

But he’s starting to be. And she’ll hate herself for it later, but Sansa is starting to like it.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! This chapter is going up straight off the press (aka I'm writing it at midnight and my proofreading skills are not currently on point), so I apologize for any mistakes. Hope you're all still with me :)
> 
> Also, love you!

For the first time since arriving, Jon is sleeping in.

Sansa takes the opportunity to do something _she_ hasn’t done in a long time, and go for a run. Taking Ghost with her, it feels relatively safe in a way it hasn’t since before Ramsey, maybe even Joffrey. She changes into a pair of leggings and a slim fitting long sleeve top, and grabs a leash for Ghost.

Before she can even form the word _outside_ on her tongue, the wolf is at her heels, red eyes peering happily up at her.

“Hmm.” She murmurs, clipping the lead to his collar. “It’s a good thing you’re so well behaved. You’re certainly smart enough to make things difficult, aren’t you?”

His only answer is to cock his head a little further to the left. Sansa takes that as a yes.

They head out along her old route, getting more than a few stares. She supposes they make an interesting looking pair so early in the morning, this delicate pretty girl and her huge wolf dog. But with Ghost at her side, it doesn’t bother her. That’s freeing in a way she missed and didn’t think she’d ever get back.

It doesn’t take long for her body to remind her that she’s out of shape. Not embarrassingly so, but enough that her legs burn more than usual and she’s sure her face is colouring to match her hair. Ghost just huffs along beside her, eyeing her every once in a while as if to say _is that really all you’ve got_?

“This is more exercise than you’d manage with Jon,” Sansa mutters between laboured breaths. “I could have left you at home, you know.”

The red stare turns back to the path in front of them, and she doesn’t bother to suppress her grin.

Instead, it falls abruptly off her face when she goes careening into something solid, the leash tugging at her waist as Ghost is jerked to a sudden halt as well.

“I’m so sorry,” Sansa apologizes to the still standing stranger, pushing a stray lock of red hair out of her eyes to better see them. “I wasn’t looking where I was going, and-” she breaks off as her eyes widen in recognition at the slightly rounded face in front of her. “Sam?”

A pair of startled brown eyes blink back at her.

“Sansa? And-oh! Hello Ghost.” When Sam reaches down to pat the top of the dog’s head, it’s Sansa’s turn to be startled. Ghost tolerates it, though he doesn’t lean into the touch the way he usually does with her and Jon. “You alright?”

He’s speaking to her now, and she suddenly remembers that she ran rather forcefully into him.

“I’m fine. Just got a little lost in my thoughts, I suppose.”

He smiles easily back at her, and Sansa notices for the first time that there’s a small, slightly mousy brunette standing beside him.

“Oh.” Sansa blinks. “I’m sorry, we haven’t met. I’m Sansa.”

The girl reaches out her hand, and Sam flushes.

“Ah, yes. My apologies. Sansa, this is Gilly. Gilly, this is Sansa. She’s the one Jon is staying with.”

Sansa takes the outstretched hand, mind working slowly.

“You know Jon?”

Gilly shakes her head, replying with a toothy smile.

“No, but Sam has talked about him loads. It’s nice that you’re letting him stay.”

Sansa has to fight a jolt of defensiveness at that. Gilly doesn’t know her, isn’t judging her. It’s not her fault that the question is beginning to sound like an accusation.

“Well,” she wills her smile to say soft. “He’s family. How do you two know each other?” She asks, glancing between Sam and Gilly. To her surprise, Sam blushes again.

“I’m a waitress. Sam used to come into my restaurant all the time, and he was always really nice to me.” Gilly offers.

“We’re friends,” Sam clarifies, and at that, understanding clicks into place.

 _But you want to be more,_ Sansa thinks silently. She’s surprised that she can enjoy the sweetness of that.

“Where do you work?”

“Craster’s Keep,” Gilly answers, naming a bar Sansa has always avoided. The crowd there is rough, and she’s heard stories about the owner that made her skin crawl, back when that was easier to do.

“Oh.” Holding tightly to her manners, Sansa nods. “I know it.”

As though reading the thoughts Sansa is keeping so thoroughly contained, Gilly smiles knowingly.

“It’s not fancy, but the tips are good. And my stepfather owns it, so I have my pick of hours.”

Sansa’s eyebrows go up at that, she can’t help it.

“Craster is your stepfather?”

The smaller girl nods, but doesn’t seem to notice the way Sam’s jaw has tightened at the name. Sansa, however, doesn’t miss it.

“I would say you should come by some time, but I don’t know if it’s really your kind of place,” Gilly continues, unbothered.

From probably anyone else, Sansa would be irritated by the comment. But she knows the other girl means well.

“Well-” She hesitates for only a moment before the words tumble out, seemingly of their own accord. “Actually, what are the two of you doing Wednesday evening? Jon was so glad to see you, Sam, I thought it might be nice if we all did dinner.”

The pair blink at her, clearly surprised. Ghost just shifts beside her, resting his warm weight against her leg.

“At yours?” Sam asks, eyebrows still slightly furrowed in confusion. Sansa almost mentions that, actually, she meant she’d take them out, but instead she just shrugs.

“Yeah, I think Jon would love to see you again. And this way he can meet Gilly.”

Additionally, the dinner gives Sam an opportunity to get closer to Gilly, but she keeps that to herself.

The brunette’s smile turns shy.

“I have Thursday off,” she murmurs, turning to look at Sam. And, unsurprisingly, his answer comes swiftly after that.

“I don’t have any plans after classes end,” he confirms. “I think-we’d love to.”

“Great!” Sansa is a little surprised that she doesn’t have to feign her enthusiasm. She likes the easier, less mopey Jon that came out the night before in Sam’s presence.

They exchange numbers, with Sansa promising to text them a time and an address after she’s spoken to Jon. When she waves goodbye and lets her pace fall back into just above a jog, she can feel Ghost’s eyes on her again.

“What?” She murmurs, pointedly staring straight ahead. “I know what you’re thinking, but I’m not meddling. I’m just trying to socialize Jon. Gods know he needs it.”

A rough snort puffs across her leg, and she swears she can almost hear the canine version of laughter over the beat of her sneakers on the pavement.

* * *

“No,” Sansa pinches the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. “It’s fine, Danaerys. It’s a little short notice, but I can manage an appearance for a few hours.”

From somewhere in Iceland, her boss murmurs a staticky expression of gratitude, and hangs up.

Dropping onto the other side of the couch, Jon frowns at her.

“Everything alright?”

The sigh escapes before she can think better of it.

“Mmm. Just a work thing tonight. It's black tie, so I'll have to rent or buy a dress and get my hair done and-” Sansa cuts off abruptly, acutely aware of Jon’s eyes on her. “I shouldn't complain. There are thousands of women who would kill to go to events like this, and I'm paid to do it.”

He just shrugs.

“Sounds like a lot of effort, honestly. I always assumed you enjoyed that sort of thing, though.” It's more a question than an apology, but she appreciates it anyway. That he has the sense not to sound so sure.

“I used to. The novelty wears off after a while,” she says a little distractedly, still thinking of all the errands she'll have to run now. When Jon’s voice draws her gaze again, she catches on the way the scar running down the right side of his face is already turning pink and silver in the late morning light. He seems to be healing well, certainly looks better than he did when she saw him right after the accident. And he's hardly complained about his injuries at all, though he’s clearly still sore enough that any exercise warrants a grimace and a grunt.

He doesn’t look worse off for it, though. Margaery would surely say something about how the scars add character to his face, but it’s more than that. It’s almost as though the image of Jon Sansa has always had in her head should have had scars all along.

“I used to think it'd be like that with the fires,” Jon murmurs. Sansa blinks at the admission. They haven't talked about his job, or even the accident, at all since he's arrived. “But every call was still-the adrenaline got me every time.”

“Do you miss it?” She asks. He sounds wistful, but there's something else there too. Fatigue maybe.

“Yeah,” he nods, then his mouth slants sideways. “And no. Kind of depends on the day. Obviously I wouldn’t be up to it right now, but…when I first got into it I thought it would feel more…” He trails off, apparently searching for the right word.

“Victorious?” She offers. His eyes sweep over to her again, that curious surprise in his gaze. Jon always was one for competition. She suspects now that he was really just trying to prove his value in a house full of children with a stronger claim to parental attention. She can imagine that the drive to prove himself never really went away.

“Yeah.” Still staring at her, he nods again. “But it doesn’t really. You can’t save everyone, and even if you do, they’ve lost everything. It’s like-“ Jon stops abruptly. “Nevermind. It’s stupid.”

They’ve come so far, Sansa thinks, from where they were before. But it’s easy to forget that he’s still Jon and she is still Sansa, and they grew up in different worlds underneath the same roof.

If anything, their time apart has nudged them a little closer to common ground. But he doesn’t know that.

“I doubt it.” She says with a sigh. “And anyway, I’ve said plenty of stupid things in my life. I won’t judge you.”

It occurs to her after the words have left her mouth that he has no reason to believe that. All she did when they were children was judge him, judge everyone. Apparently despite that, he hesitates for only another moment before speaking.

“Sometimes I think it’s a bit like war, in that aspect.” He murmurs, eyes casting down to settle on Ghost, sleeping happily on the floor after his walk. “Even when you win you’ve lost.”

“That’s not stupid at all,” she says softly, and his eyes come back to hers. “I’m sure it’s called firefighting for a reason.”

Seconds pass in silence, Jon’s brow drawn only slightly, and then Sansa remembers that she’s made plans that involve him.

“I went for a run earlier.” Unsurprisingly, she’s the one to break the silence. “And ran into Sam.”

“Oh?” Those furrowed brows go up.

“Mmm.” She nods. “I sort of…invited him to dinner. Him and a friend of his.”

His eyebrows disappear now, into the slightly wild dark curls that Sansa is beginning to recognize as his bedhead.

“Wh-here?”

“Yes, I-“ She pauses. “I hope it’s alright. I thought it would be nice to get to know him, and it seemed like a good opportunity for him to spend time with a woman he obviously likes.”

“A…what woman?” Jon blinks at her, apparently more surprised by that than the invitation as a whole.

“Her name was Gilly,” Sansa says with a shrug. “She works at a bar, apparently that's how they met.”

Still looking distracted, Jon hums.

“Never really known Sam to date.”

“They’re coming over on Wednesday.” Her phone rings again. “Sorry, hold on.”

It’s Myrcella. More bad news, more work for Sansa.

She hangs up, ignoring Jon’s eyes still on her and letting out a rare indulgent groan.

“You get a lot of calls,” he observes. “Considering it’s the weekend.”

“Weekend…” She rolls the word slowly over her tongue, as though it’s unfamiliar. “Should I know what that is?”

He cracks a grin, that crooked one that scrunches his eyes, and always makes her feel like she’s won something.

“It was just a heads up.” Her voice falls weary again. “They’ve added a speaker to the program and he’s…kind of a pain in the ass. I’ve learned that it’s better not to show up alone anywhere he’s going to be. Which means I need to find a date.”

Because otherwise he’ll hit on her mercilessly and aggressively, and she doesn’t have the patience to deal with it these days. She runs through a mental list, people who would be available so late, and the only one she can think of is Loras, Margaery’s brother, who’s both openly gay and quite publicly engaged to someone else. So he wouldn’t be of much use to dissuade Roe anyway.

Jon shifts in his seat, shoulder cracking. His gaze has wandered to the wall.

“Can’t imagine that’ll be difficult for you.”

Her eyebrows go up.

“I’ve got about ten hours to materialize a man who owns a tux and will put up with drunk cougars molesting him all night. Surprisingly, the pool of eligible and willing bachelors is not terribly deep.”

“Is it so bad if you can’t find anyone?” He asks, still staring at the wall. Sansa briefly follows his glance, wondering what exactly has caught his attention. There doesn’t seem to be anything, aside from a small chip in the paint from when she was hanging a painting, so she assumes the conversation is simply no longer holding his interest.

“It’s not the end of the world, I suppose.” She says it because he probably expects her to. “But I can’t imagine Daenerys would be pleased if I sucker punch one of our biggest donors because he’s grabbed my ass again.”

That gets his attention, concern lining his eyes when they snap back to her.

She waves it off.

“The point is that I’m less likely to have to deal with if I’ve shown up _with_ someone, because he’s a misogynistic son of a bitch but he seems not to like encroaching on other men’s territory.”

She gets to her feet, figuring the longer she sits here she’s only putting off all the things she has to get done.

“I guess I won’t be seeing much of you today, then,” he says eventually. There’s a note of something almost resembling disappointment in his voice, but she’s not foolish enough to believe that’s what it really is.

“No,” she shakes her head, listing her new to-do list on her fingers. “Dress shopping, hair, makeup, date-wrangling…and the event starts at seven although I doubt I’ll be there on time. I guess you’ll be on your own for dinner.”

He shrugs.

“There’s leftover stew.”

“Mmm.” That’s a little surprising given how much they ate last night, it was _good_ stew. “And what about you? Any weekend plans?”

Something like a smirk crosses his lips, but she suspects he’s laughing more at himself than her.

“Nah. Take Ghost out later, probably, and not much beyond that. The union sent me some paperwork, so I s’pose I could get some of that done.”

She has to swallow the urge to make some comment like _riveting_ , especially since after a moment it occurs to her that his evening actually sounds far more enjoyable than her own.

* * *

By the time she’s found a dress and had her hair done, Sansa still hasn’t found anyone to go with her to the dinner. Her list was short to begin with, seems she can only get one event out of a friend before they realize how boring it is and pledge never to go another.

And it’s not that she has many male _friends_ , more like acquaintances, and ones that aren’t eager to break their pre-existing Saturday night plans to go to some charity thing with Sansa.

She stumbles as she pushes through the front door, tripping over the garment bag in her hand. She braces herself for the impact of the floor, but it doesn’t come. Instead, she feels a strong arm wrap around her waist, stopping her fall.

“Oh,” she blinks up at the riot of raven curls and brown eyes frowning down at her. “Thanks, Jon.”

His lips twitch, just slightly.

Righting herself, she tosses the garment bag over the back of the couch, freeing a hand to smooth over Ghost’s forehead as he comes to nudge her legs.

“Wouldn’t have wanted you to ruin your hair,” he says evenly, gaze flitting to the deceivingly simple half up-do that fades into curls that fall down her back.

She almost cut it, after. But after everything Ramsey had taken from her, it felt almost rebellious to keep something.

“Ah, well.” One hand itches to touch it, suddenly self-conscious. “My stylist thanks you for it.”

Her own gaze goes to the clock on her microwave display, and the numbers there draw a disappointed groan.

The dinner starts in an hour, and not only does she not have a date, but she’ll have to do her own makeup. It’s too late to get an appointment with anyone reputable at this point.

Not for the first time today, she curses Daenerys for foisting this off on her.

She looks back at Jon, her eyes catching on the white of his t-shirt and the black of his jeans, and suddenly she has an idea.

A _bad_ one, almost certainly, but she’s desperate.

“You said you didn’t have any plans tonight, didn’t you?” She asks innocuously, slipping out of her boots.

“Mmm?” He’s already wandered back into the kitchen, snatching an apple out of the fruit bowl. When he turns back toward her, his mouth is full. “Oh, yeah.”

Her smile turns blinding, and it’s a little funny the way he literally starts at it, eyes widening in alarm.

“Jon,” she says, advancing on him slowly, still smiling sweetly. “Kind, handsome Jon.”

His blinking goes erratic, then stills as he realizes what she’s after.

“Ah.” His groan admittedly outdoes her previous one, drawn out and long suffering.

But also, she notes with heady relief, resigned.

“It would only be a few hours, we can go late and leave early since it’s not one of my events-“

“I don’t have a tux,” he interjects, panic obvious in his voice. Sansa just waves a hand, phone already out.

“Easily taken care of,” she murmurs dismissively, fingers tapping away as she texts.

“…I can’t dance-”

“I know.”

He huffs an exasperated sigh.

“No, I mean I won’t be able to, I’m still-” He gestures at his ribs with a wince. Sansa softens.

“I know. I just don’t have anyone else this late who could step in for me. Otherwise I’d never ask. And as much as I don’t want to go alone, if you really don’t want to go I won’t ask again. I’m a big girl. I can handle Roe if need be.”

His dark eyes have to cast down slightly to see her, she hadn’t realized just how close she’d gotten. She can smell the cheerios he must have just eaten, mixed with that fresh snow and pine scent that seems to be his own personal scent. It reminds her of home, and she has to stop herself from burying her face in his shoulder just to breathe it in.

Her cheeks must turn red at the thought, because he quirks his scarred brow at her.

A few more seconds pass in silence, and she lets her gaze wander to give him time to think it over.

“You can get a tux in the next hour?”

Her attention snaps back to him, grin already pulling.

“Or so. We may be a little late.”

This time his sigh is dramatic, but light.

In a rare moment of impulse, she throws her arms around him. His sharp intake of breath reminds her that he’s delicate, for the moment, but when she moves to pull away he places a hand on the small of her back.

There’s not force behind it, but it anchors her there, lingering in the embrace, breathing in his scent and wondering how she’s never noticed just how _warm_ he is before.

“Thank you,” she whispers, and then she does pull back, unable to read whatever sits just under the surface of his expression.

He shrugs.

“S’fine.”

“Now,” she claps her hands together, diving entirely into the business at hand. “Do you happen to know how long your inseam is?”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyyyy guys. I'm so sorry about the updates. Being in uni writing just kind of...doesn't happen sometimes. But here's a nice long chapter of Jon and Sansa at a fancy party. This is an update between finals, so I'll try to update again when I'm done, around a week or so! Next up: dinner with Gilly and Sam!

“Do you not need to…change?” Jon asks, blinking at Sansa as she herds him out the door with an apologetic glance at Ghost.

“I’ll change while you get fitted,” she tells him, holding up the garment bag in her hand. “They’ll need a moment to find something off the rack that will fit you decently anyway.”

The ride is quiet, the nervous energy coming off him in waves. She sighs.

“It won’t be so bad. I promise we won’t stay long.”

He just grunts, in typical Jon fashion. His silence lasts the rest of the ride, and it isn’t until Michele practically accosts him in the salon that he speaks again.

“This is him?” Michele frowns, looking Jon over while she speaks to Sansa.

“Yes,” Sansa replies, biting back a laugh at the wary look on her roommate’s face. “Michele, this is Jon. Jon this is Michele Clapton. She’s my seamstress, and also an angel,” she adds earnestly. The platinum blonde looks up at that, a sly smile curling her lips.

“Flattery will get you nowhere. But you brought me this pretty new toy to play with, so I’ll let it go.”

“Pretty-“ Jon sputters, but he’s caught off as Sansa says firmly-

“You have half an hour. I know it’s not much, but do what you can.”

Jon looks mildly affronted at that.

“Mmm, I will. The other room is available, if you need it,” Michele waves at the curtained room on the other side of the salon. The soft lighting isn’t ideal for doing her makeup, but in the absence of any other options, Sansa just smiles gratefully.

“Alright, thank you.” Turning her attention to Jon, she says, “I’ll be back for you at seven. Don’t let her get too handsy.”

The wide set of his eyes at that has her laughing all the way across the shop.

* * *

There are days when Sansa looks in the mirror, sees her reflection, and feels a sense of accomplishment, even appreciation, at what she sees there.

And then there are days when makeup and brushes are strewn across the counter and all she can think as she examines the result is _well, good enough_.

There are the other days too, the ones where she sees nothing but ghosts and bruises, but tonight it’s the second scenario. She spritzes her face lightly with a setting spray, and steps into her skirt, tugging it up and over her hips. The second piece, a long sleeve top that buttons up the back and is fronted by a sheer lace panel, is going to need a second pair of hands to do up.

It’s a pretty dress, considering the very short notice and the boring theme of the event (diamonds), but it fits her well without any alterations and the skirt sits high enough to hide the scars that cross her lower back, a deep V that has ended up being surprisingly convenient for disguise under the cut of most dresses. Unless she wears one entirely without sides, or a back cut so low it shows the base of her spine, she can keep it out of sight.

In an exhausted, mindless moment, she imagines thanking Ramsey for that one thing.

 _“Oh I do_ so _appreciate you reserving the knife for the places I’ll never let anyone see again. It would have been awkward to explain all the scars at those black tie work events_.”

Shaking it off before her mind can too completely conjure the image of him, Sansa zips and fastens her skirt under her arm, and takes a brief glance at the length of herself in the mirror.

Her hair is still in the soft half up-do from her earlier appointment, her soft eye makeup deferring to the bright red lip she’s painted on. The top of her dress hangs loose due to the unfastened buttons, but the skirt is full and floor length, with a thigh high slit that will show when she walks. It’s…something she would have enjoyed a lot more, once.

Pulling a small black box out of her bag, Sansa slips on the final touch, a pair of dramatic chandelier earrings dripping with diamonds. She has no real love for rhinestones on her clothing, but these, along with a sizeable tear-shaped solitaire on her right hand, are her concession to the theme of the gala.

She sticks her head past the curtain, and sees a flash of denim.

“Michele!” She calls, and the seamstress turns, the glasses that make her eyes look comically large perched on her nose. “Would you mind?”

With Jon nowhere in sight, she lets the curtain fall, and points to her undone blouse. The blonde hurries over, nimble fingers flying over the buttons with ease.

“Such a pretty girl,” Michele sighs. It sounds sad, for some reason, and when the touches at her back stop Sansa turns a puzzled gaze at the woman. “I’ve dressed hundreds of beautiful women, but none of them wear it quite the way you do.”

Still confused, Sansa fidgets with the material of her skirt.

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Like a burden. You resent it.”

Sansa blinks, opens her mouth to argue.

“I don’t mean it as an accusation.” For the first time since they’ve met, Michele softens. “I just wanted to advise you…that ugliness follows beauty, it’s true. I suspect you already know that.” Her light blue eyes turn shrewd, and Sansa shifts uncomfortably under the intensity of her stare. She’s always suspected that the seamstress is…more than that. She pays such sharp attention to everything, keeps such close an eye on the most powerful people in the city. “But so does power.”

“I don’t _want_ power,” Sansa says sharply. She’s seen what power does to people, and after everything, she’d rather die than become like them.

Michele shakes her head.

“Think, girl. You’re a woman in a man’s world, you have to hoard all the power you can. The alternative is to be powerless.”

 _Helpless_ , Sansa thinks she means. And she never wants to be helpless again. Michele watches her face change, then nods.

“I still don’t know what you-“Sansa murmurs, starting when the seamstress grabs her jaw in a tiny, strong hand.

“This face,” the blonde says evenly. “Men would do terrible things for you, you know. To you, if they get the chance.”

Sansa jerks out of her grip, eyes blazing.

“I don’t want-”

“What _do_ you want, Ms. Stark?” Michele asks, cocking her head as she studies her.

“I-“ Sansa raises an arm in frustration, then lets it drop. This whole conversation has come completely out of the blue, and she knows she’s been caught with her guard down. “To be left alone!”

To her angry surprise, Michele shakes her head.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’ll figure it out,” the woman waves a hand and turns on her heel, leaving Sansa standing in the middle of the shop in her gown, barefoot, chest heaving.

“Sansa?”

She whirls around just in time to see Jon step out of his dressing room, and all thoughts of Michele temporarily fall out of her head.

He’s wearing a classic black tux, the jacket hugging his broad shoulders, dark curls pulled back in what appears to be a formal attempt on his usual bun. He looks-

Well. He looks _far_ better than she was expecting him to in a tux.

“Are you alright?” He asks, coming to a staggering stop when he actually catches sight of her. His eyes widen slightly, and trail slowly over her waist until he jerks them almost guiltily back to her face. She writes that off as an instinctual male reaction, no more meaningful than her own appreciation a few seconds before.

Her mouth snaps shut.

“I-yes. I’m fine. That fits you well,” she says, now openly eyeing the lines of the material on him.

“Thanks,” he mumbles. “You look…beautiful.” The compliment is sincere, if a little awkward, and it goes a long way to soothe the feathers Michele had just left ruffled.

“Thank you.” She smiles at him. “I just need to get my things, and I should probably put shoes on. Give me a minute.”

He nods, shoving his hands in the pockets of his slacks, and she pads back to her own dressing room to slide on her delicate but towering silver sandals. After fastening the ankle strap, she grabs her purse and coat, and walks back out to meet Jon.

His eyebrows go up when she reappears, and his gaze shoots down to her feet.

“Gods,” he mutters, frowning down at her shoes. “How do you walk in those?”

“With practice,” she says with a laugh. Impulsively, she loops her arm through his. “And a sturdy man to lean on.”

He rolls his eyes, but something almost resembling a flush creeps underneath his collar.

“Shall we?” She asks.

His answering sigh is reluctant, but he tucks her arm against his side, and Sansa decides that despite their many differences, Jon is a sturdy man indeed.

* * *

It’s an ominous sign, Sansa thinks, that she finds these events so tedious.

Given that they are, quite literally, her job.

She’s good at planning them, at considering everything that could go wrong and building in contingencies. But having to _be_ here, with all these people she doesn’t like or mostly even respect, she feels stifled.

Alone in a ballroom full of people.

Although, tonight, there is _one_ person she likes.

As though responding to her thoughts of him, Jon frowns at her over his whiskey.

“You alright?”

She hums a response. They’ve taken a short break from socializing to get drinks (whiskey for Jon, soda water for Sansa). Most of her wants to climb behind the bar and hide until the whole thing is over. But the rest of her is stubborn, insisting that she’s more than capable of composing herself for a few hours in the company of the people who determine that she has a job.

“Yes, I just-” Her fingers whiten around her glass as a new face appears beside her.

“Sansa Stark.” Roe Garren grins down at her, his pale blue eyes already narrowed with drink. “Oh, I was _hoping_ you’d be here. When I saw Daenerys I assumed it meant you weren’t coming.”

Sansa blinks.

“Danaerys is _here_?” If her boss really has shown up, it means Sansa didn’t need to. That she’d gone to all the trouble of getting the dress and dragging Jon out here for no reason.

Roe shrugs, clearly not interested in discussing the blonde. He leans in, until he’s practically pinning her against the bar top, and she can smell the liquor on his breath.

“When are you going to take me up on my offer, hmm?” She can’t be certain to which he’s referring, given that there have simply been _so many_ of them, but she _is_ certain that not one of them doesn’t repulse her.

She can’t even force a smile this time (she must be losing her touch) but she’s saved when an arm loops around her waist. She tenses for the briefest second, thinking it’s Roe, then relaxes as Jon’s scent curls around her.

“Hello.” He’s smiling easily at Roe, looking suddenly far surer of himself than Sansa is used to, but there’s a sharp edge in his eyes that she finds fascinating. He holds out his hand. “We haven’t met. I’m Jon Snow.”

Roe takes his hand, the disappointment at being interrupted quickly masked.

“Roe Garren. How do you know our Sansa?”

The possessive term isn’t lost on either of them. Jon’s arm tightens incrementally around her.

“He’s an old family friend,” Sansa says, jumping in to save him the trouble of explaining. “He’s my date tonight.”

Roe raises a silver streaked eyebrow. There are a million things in that movement, that micro expression. Derision being one, and something else animal that she doesn’t like and recognizes in a visceral way that nearly has her knees going from under her.

“Ah.” He smiles, lips stretched tight, like even his own skin doesn’t quite believe it. “How nice. Well, I hope you’ll save me a dance.”

“I’m not much of a dancer,” Sansa says, pouring apology into her voice. It’s a lie she can get away with, given that she hasn’t danced in public since-

Well. Since Joffrey cared enough to ask her. And that was a very long time ago.

“I’ll do my best to change your mind,” Roe murmurs, unbothered. He does like the thrill of pursuit, like most predators. “Enjoy the party, Sansa.”

And then he’s gone, off to stare down the necklines of his other guests. Sansa doesn’t realize how tense she’s become, coiled tight like a spring, until Jon’s thumb brushes lightly against her waist, and her whole body relaxes.

“I’m beginning to see you why you wanted an escort,” he says, and when she glances over at him she sees his eyes following Roe across the room. “What a prick.”

“Mmm. But a very rich, very connected prick. It’s my job to kiss his ass, although sometimes I think he expects that quite literally.”

He doesn’t say anything. After a moment, she sighs.

“If Daenerys is here I should probably talk to her. Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

She’s painfully aware that when they step forward, his arm falls away from her waist. To her shock, he replaces it with a hand at the small of her back.

They wind their way through the crowd, Sansa smiling and nodding at the faces she knows, until they come up behind Dany, her long pale hair flowing down her bare back.

“Daenerys.” Sansa says, and her boss glances over her shoulder, turning violet eyes on Jon, rather than Sansa.

“Who is this?” Dany asks, turning fully to cock her head at Jon. The man she was conversing with seems to take this as his dismissal, slinking back off into the party.

“This is Jon Snow, a friend of mine.”

He extends his hand automatically, a show of those good manners Cat instilled so impeccably in all her children, including him. Amusement dances in Dany’s eyes, but she takes his hand, quite explicitly sizing him up as she does so.

“Daenerys Targaryen. Are you Sansa’s chaperone tonight?” She quirks an imperious brow.

“Ah, I don’t think Sansa needs a chaperone. I’m just here to-” he sounds unsure, much less steady than when speaking to Roe, and Sansa blinks at him as Dany cuts him off.

“Sansa is my best employee, and I am well aware that she is capable of taking care of herself. But she is more polite than I am, which I appreciate, and chooses to wear men like suits of armour at these things. An effective tactic, and much subtler than my own.”

Sansa’s lips twitch. She recognizes the compliment as a backhanded one, but appreciates it nonetheless.

“And your tactic would be…” Jon prompts, tilting his head curiously. He looks…interested, Sansa realizes, and is almost more surprised by the way her stomach bottoms out at the thought. Interested in _Daenerys_.

“I threatened to cut off his manhood,” the blonde says, still smiling just the same. Jon’s eyes widen, as though he’s not quite sure whether to laugh or not.

“I didn’t think you were going to be able to make it tonight,” Sansa says carefully, still watching the interaction between the two. Finally, her boss turns to look at her.

“I had other plans, but something urgent here has required my attention.” No apology for calling Sansa here for no reason, on such short notice. But then, apologies are hardly her style.

“Right, well I-“

“Ah, Sansa Stark. I was wondering if I’d see you here.”

She’d know that voice anywhere.

“Cersei.” The woman is the same as Sansa remembers, and different. Her long gold hair is perfectly waved, her sharp green eyes framed in darkened lashes. She’s smiling, and that’s familiar, that quiet, watchful smile that follows you like a second pair of eyes.

Sansa had gone to her, about Joffrey, after the first time it was more than a slap. And the older woman had been soft, laying tender fingers against the bruise on Sansa’s jaw, face impassive.

_“Oh, little dove.”_

_“I didn’t mean to make him angry, he was so tired and I knocked over my glass, and-“ Not that she really believes it’s her fault. But Cersei will know what to do. She’ll talk to Joffrey._

_“I suspect it doesn’t matter what you meant. Joffrey has his father’s temper. Worse, I sometimes worry.”_

_Sansa blinks. Robert? He’s always been a bit of a hothead, but she can’t remember ever seeing it in his eyes, the undiluted hatred Joffrey looks at her with sometimes._

_“Mr. Barotheon? But-“_

_“No one will believe you, you know.” Her voice is still soft, but it’s dangerous now, a threat dipped in honey._

_“I-” Sansa stutters. “I wasn’t-I just want him to stop. I wasn’t going to tell anyone. I love Joffrey.”_

_That has Cersei blinking, cocking her head to study the girl in front of her._

_“Do you?”_

_Of the uncertainty that has underpinned this conversation from the start, this is the heaviest._

_“Of course I do. He’s my boyfriend.”_

_Cersei just smiles, leonine and shrewd and grim, and Sansa will remember her next words for the rest of her life._

_“How tragic. He will never love you, little dove. And he will use you as long as you let him.”_

She’s pulled from the memory when Jon nudges her. She blinks, noticing the others staring at her.

“Sorry,” she murmurs. “I got a little lost in my thoughts.”

“Oh?” Cersei peers at her over a flute of champagne. “And, penny for those thoughts, darling?”

“I was trying to remember the last time we spoke,” Sansa says evenly. “It’s been quite a while.”

Dany glances between them, a detached, almost academic interest in her eyes. Beside her, Jon looks uncomfortable.

Cersei seems to catch her meaning, eyebrows going up in surprise.

“Yes. Such a shame about you and Joffrey. I was absolutely…shocked to hear it.” Her delivery would fool most, but Sansa knows Cersei inside and out, knows what it takes to create a person like that.

They’re not so different inside, Sansa suspects. Sometimes that’s harder to live with than everything else. They are tough, made almost entirely of scar tissue. They are smart, minds whittled razor sharp by cruelty, and they are _furious_.

But Cersei has gotten comfortable with a legacy of scorched earth in a way that that Sansa hopes she will never even understand.

“And who is this? A new beau?” Green eyes slide to Jon, and Sansa suddenly doesn’t like that she’s brought him here, that he’s in New York where all her ghosts are too, that she’s exposed him like this.

What was she _thinking_?

“Jon Snow,” He says, before she can think of a way to avoid it. “I’m a friend of the Starks.” And gods, does that sound like a declaration of allegiance if Sansa has every heard one. The sweet, sweet fool.

“How lovely.” Cersei doesn’t react to Jon not extending her a hand. Instead, her eyes slip between Sansa and Jon, thoughtful. “Such loyalty.”

 _Like a dog_ , Sansa hears. It’s an insult, and she hopes both that Jon misses it and that he’s sharp enough not to.

“He-” She begins to interject on his behalf, half instinct, but something brushes across her back, and she turns to see a man she doesn’t recognize smiling shyly at her.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Stark, I was wondering if I could have a moment of your time.” His gaze flits to Daenerys, thoughtful, then back to her. “That is, unless your boss could spare one of hers.”

Dany smiles, all teeth.

“I’m sure Sansa would be happy to take your questions.” Her tone is low, but the dismissal is clear. “I’d be happy to entertain your friend in the meantime.”

Leave Jon with Dany and Cersei? Sansa begins to protest, but there’s a familiar steel in the blonde’s violet eyes. She lets the reporter pull her away, reluctantly. Surely he’ll be alright on his own for a few moments.

* * *

It turns out Jon was not the one she should have been worrying about.

Barely thirty seconds after being sequestered to a quiet corner of the ballroom, Roe appears. He doesn’t interrupt the interview, just circles the pair of them like a shadow. The feeling, like a rabbit caught under the predatory gaze of a snake, is familiar, and it makes her skin crawl.

“I’m sorry,” she tries to say, as soon as the questions stop, not even looking at the man whose name she’s already forgotten. “I need to-”

But she’s not fast enough.

“Ah Sansa, I thought I heard that delightful accent. What are you doing in a corner all by yourself?”

Before she can point out that she’s not, in fact, by herself, the journalist disappears. She supposes Roe’s favour is worth more than hers in these circles. Or maybe he’s just scarier than she is.

“Roe.” She greets him, because it would be quite obviously rude not to, but she doesn’t smile. She’s _tired_ of him, and the ones who came before him. There’s no winning, playing these games. There’s no end.

“Enjoying the party?” There’s a question under his question, because no one at these sorts of things actually speaks with only one tongue at a time.

Her lips curve elastically.

“I always do. Everything is lovely.” She pushes it on him as a compliment, knowing full well he has nothing to do with any of that. Her priority now is to get away from him without offending him too deeply or causing a scene.

His hand circles her wrist as though as he can read her thoughts. Or maybe his instinct is just to restrain women before they can flee from his presence. It’s surely happened to him enough times before.

Sansa’s gaze snaps up to his face at the contact, and she has to fight a snarl. Without thinking, she jerks her arm from his grasp. His eyebrows fly upwards, and she realizes instantly that she’s made a mistake.

“Is something wrong?” Roe asks, face clouding. He steps closer, and she mirrors it with a step backwards, stomach tightening when her back bumps against the wall.

It’s a party _full_ of people, she thinks. He can’t do anything to her here.

But then he puts his hand on her waist, and all she can think is _no_.

“Roe,” she says through gritted teeth. “I need to get back to my guest.” Maybe the reminder that she did, in fact, come here with another man will be enough to deter him. It has been before.

He doesn’t move.

Sansa can physically remove him. Thanks to Brienne, she has the technique and physical strength to do so, and the thought calms her heating blood a little. But this is her place of _work_ , and making a scene will have more consequences for her than for him. She bites her lip, frustrated.

Roe’s hand moves slowly down her body, skimming over her hip. His face nears hers, until she can smell the alcohol on his breath. Then-the tiniest brush of his dry, thin lips against hers.

And that’s all it takes, anger contracting her muscles like a rush of adrenaline. She shoves him, hard enough that he stumbles backwards and knocks into a waiter, who apologizes profusely before skittishly disappearing. Cool air rushes in to replace his hands and his heat in her space, and with it comes embarrassment.

“I’m sorry,” she says stiffly, watching the incredulity on his face turn to anger. “I’m not feeling well. Excuse me.”

He doesn’t come after her, and her breathing begins to even out as she crosses the ballroom to where she last saw Jon and Daenerys. By the time she finds them, nowhere near where they’d been before, she manages to plaster a convincing smile across her face. Cersei is gone, thankfully, but a headache is growing quickly behind Sansa’s eyes, and she’s in no mood to be here any longer. Gods forbid she runs into Roe again.

“Sansa,” Dany greets her first, Jon turning to blink at her as she steps up behind him.

“You were gone a while,” he notes, and Sansa notices that his cheeks are flushed. Whether from drink, or the company, she’s not sure. His expression is unreadable, but pleasant.

Well. At least one of them has been having a good time.

“I hate to do this,” she says, still holding her smile tightly in place. “Especially after dragging you out here. But I have a terrible headache.”

His brow draws immediately in concern, and she can’t help but appreciate that, at least. She turns her attention to the blonde behind him.

“Since you’re here now, I hope you don’t mind if I make it an early night.” Not that she had to be here in the first place, Sansa wants to add, though she bites her tongue. Dany regards her coolly for a moment, her violet eyes flat.

“Of course. I wouldn’t want you to be ill and miss our meeting on Monday.” She smiles then, dimples appearing. They always startle Sansa a little, something so soft on a woman that she half expects to grow sharp teeth and claws whenever something doesn’t go her way. They make her look younger than she is, human in a way she doesn’t often act.

Her words drift through the distracted thoughts beginning to clutter Sansa’s head. Though she doesn’t recall a meeting scheduled for Monday, but she doesn’t have the energy just then to argue. And confronting Daenerys about anything in front of Jon would be foolhardy regardless.

“Thanks. Enjoy the rest of your evening,” Sansa says gratefully. Then she turns to Jon. “You don’t mind either, do you?” She’d expected he’d be edging for the door the moment they arrived, but he almost seems to be enjoying himself. Sansa isn’t sure why that sours her stomach, or why she stares when Daenerys gives him her number as they leave, but by the time they make it to the called car, she’s in a spectacularly dark mood.

It doesn’t take Jon long to pick up on it.

“Are you alright?” He asks, the city lights whizzing past them, burning streaks of lights onto the back of her eyes.

Sansa crosses her legs, frowning out the window.

“I’m fine. Thank you for coming tonight, I’m sorry it ended up being for no reason.” Her voice sounds clipped even to her own ears, and she sighs internally. It’s not Jon’s fault that Roe cornered her, though the petty voice in her head reminds her that avoiding a situation like that is the entire reason she brought him. And there’s nothing _wrong_ with him flirting with her boss, really.

Though if anything more happens between the two of them it puts Sansa in an incredibly uncomfortable position. She tells herself that’s the reason why the thought of Jon using the number Dany gave him makes her want to snap at him.

His voice pulls her out of her thoughts.

“It wasn’t so bad. Daenerys is…interesting.”

She purposely doesn’t look at him then, watches the street blur past outside.

“Mmm.” She murmurs. “That she is.”

They spend the rest of the ride in silence, and it stands in stark contrast to their easy conversation earlier in the day. When they arrive back at Sansa’s building, he holds the door open for her, and she forces a blank smile for him.

Ghost greets them the moment they open the door, and for the first time since arriving at the event, Sansa feels a little of the tension in her back loosen.

“Oh ‘lo.” She sighs, scrubbing at the fur on his neck. He leaves her after a few seconds to trail after Jon, and a quick look down reveals that he’s left a generous coating of white fur all over her black dress.

Perfect.

She peels her shoes off there at the door, groaning a little at the relief it offers. A noise from the hallway startles her, and she looks up to see Jon standing there, holding a beer.

“Sorry,” he says. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s alright,” she says tiredly, eyeing his drink. There’s a very good reason she doesn’t drink in public anymore, but a glass of wine seems called for, given the night she’s had. “I just thought you’d gone to bed.”

“It’s only 9.” He says, backing up to let her pass him and pull a wine glass from the cabinet.

“It feels later,” she mutters, pouring herself a generous glass of Malbec and downing half of it in one breath. “I’m going to wash up and change,” she adds, picking a tuft of white fur off her arm.

She almost makes it out of the kitchen, but a hand on her arm stops her. She stiffens immediately, images of earlier swimming in front of her eyes.

Jon seems to notice it, dropping his hand uncertainly as she turns back around to face him.

“Sansa, are you sure you’re alright?”

The concern in his voice angers her and wells tear behind her eyes, neither a reaction she can explain.

Such a large part of her wants to say _where were you? When I needed you, you weren’t there. No one is ever there._

But it’s not really fair to him. It’s not his fault.

She isn’t his responsibility.

“Just…” She searches for something true. Lying gets so incredibly tired. “Had another run in with Roe. It shouldn’t have ruined my night, I think I’m just a little tired.”

His lips part in a frown, and her eyes linger a little longer than necessary there. She thinks about Brienne and Michele calling him pretty, and it’s difficult to deny that it’s true, with his long dark lashes and full lips.

“What happened? Did he do something?” The anger lacing his tone has her looking back up to meet his eyes with surprise.

“It’s fine.” She says. She doesn’t want to talk to him anymore, is afraid she’ll say something she’ll regret. It’s so much better to be alone when she feels like this, all raw and scraped out on the inside. It’s better when there’s no one close enough to lash out at.

Jon steps forward, and for a second she thinks she sees something like guilt flash behind his eyes. She barely has the time to feel a petty satisfaction at that before it’s gone.

“Sansa-”

“I really am tired, Jon. I’m going to lay down. Goodnight.”

She turns on her heel, closing her bedroom door loudly behind her.

Ghost doesn’t come to her that night. She dreams of the white wolves her father used to tell her about, snowstorms and fire. And though she won’t remember it in the morning, a dragon with scales made of bones and glowing violet eyes.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even have anything to say for myself. I just could not write this chapter. This is going up unbeta-d and after I took a sleeping pill because I just needed to get it up before I changed my mind again. Sorry for any errors.

Sansa hasn’t had guests in her apartment since the early days of her relationship with Joffrey. Back then, it was expected that she’d entertain his friends, and she even liked playing hostess for a while. But with the misery of the company he kept and the indentured way he treated her during and before the parties, the novelty had quickly worn off. And eventually, of course, she was too ashamed to have anyone in to witness the way he treated her.

After a while she just stopped seeing people altogether. He’d been so good at that, at slowly carving people out of her life until he was all she had left. After he broke up with her, that loneliness had just…stuck. She had alienated most of her friends in the city, and was too skittish to make more. There were the casual friends, the ones she’d meet for coffee occasionally, and Margaery, who lived in the building, but for the most part her apartment became a fortress.

Now, she eyes the food spread over her kitchen island warily. Not only are Sam and Gilly going to _be_ here, in her space, but she has to cook for them. And though she’s gotten much better at it over the years, she still can’t hold a candle to the feasts her mother used to make.

In fact, she suspects Jon may actually be a better cook than her. Not that she’d ask him to help. Things have been strained between them ever since the Diamond Gala. Sansa has tried to put it behind them, but Daenerys had pulled her into a meeting on Monday exclusively to ask after Jon’s eligibility, and combined with her disappointment that he hadn’t effectively buffered her from Roe’s advances, she’s just…bitter.

That she knows she’s no right to feel this way doesn’t change anything.

And Jon, for his part, seems confused as to the chill that’s settled into the apartment. His uncertain glances and quiet manners have been nearly driving her mad the past few days.

She’s being unfair, and childish.

As she thinks it, a low whine from near her feet draws her attention. Ghost is sitting there, looking at her, head cocked thoughtfully as though he knows exactly what she’s thinking, and agrees.

“I know,” she says irritably. “But you’re not helping. So unless you’re going to julienne some carrots-”

He huffs loudly, and pads away, leaving Sansa feeling even worse than before.

“Even the dog thinks I’m being ridiculous,” she mutters, picking up a carrot in one hand and her vegetable peeler in the other. “Perfect.”

Jon walks in then, just in time to catch her talking to herself, and raises one dark eyebrow. A flush crawls up her neck, and Sansa drops her gaze back to the carrot.

“Sam and Gilly will be here at six,” she tells him, still not making eye contact. He grunts in response, and the light scrabble of nails on the hardwood tells her that Ghost has followed him back out into the kitchen.

“Yeah, he told me. Apparently Gilly has been a bit under the weather but he says she’s fine now.”

That catches her attention, and she looks up sharply.

“Oh. Did you tell him we can reschedule? I wouldn’t want them to come if-“

“Yeah,” Jon cuts Sansa off before she finish. “I told him I’m sure we could do it another night but apparently she insisted that she’s feeling better.” He shrugs, looking wholly unconcerned.

“I-” Sansa frowns down at the ingredients in front of her, biting her lip. “I was going to make a spicy curry but maybe I should make something else.”

“Ah…” Jon’s brow furrows, and he scratches the back of his neck.

“What?” Sansa asks, having learned to recognize that look in the past few weeks. “What is it?”

“Sam’s not great with spicy food. I’m sorry, I should have mentioned it when you told me you invited them but I didn’t think of it.”

“No,” she lets her hands fall to the countertop with a sigh. “I should have asked. Honestly, when I first invited them I meant we could go out, but-”

“We could still-” Jon offers, obviously uncomfortable, and Sansa cuts him off.

“No, I’ve already got everything. It’s fine, I can just not add as many peppers.” She nods at the small pile of thai chilis laying beside the cutting board. It’s not really fine, in that her skin is still crawling uncomfortably at the thought of this dinner, but that can’t be as easily solved.

“Uh,” his gaze flickers over the array of unprepared food on the counter. “Can I give you a hand, at least?”

Sansa gets the sense this is more than his good manners at show. His bafflement at her cold shoulder treatment since the gala has expressed as overcompensation, and if nothing else, he’s succeeding in making her feel even more guilty. She presses the tight feeling in her chest back into something possible to ignore, and jerks her chin at a pile of mangoes.

“You could julienne those, for the salad.”

He just slides into the task quietly, to his credit, snagging one of her cutting boards to slice the first fruit in half. They manage to work in a neutral silence for a few moments, and Sansa makes the mistake of relaxing into it, enough that his sudden words jar her into scraping the peeler against her thumb.

“Sansa, have I done something?”

“Shit!” She drops the peeler to press her now bleeding thumb into her mouth, reaching across the counter with her other hand to grab a cloth and press it against the cut. He’s there suddenly, in her air, black curls flopping over the top rim of his glasses as he frowns worriedly down at her hand.

“Are you alright?” He’s taking her hand in his before she can really process it, peeling the cloth away just enough to see the cut underneath.

“What are you doing?” She asks stupidly, staring at his face, barely inches away from hers. He glances up to catch her looking, but aside from a curious expression, doesn’t comment on it.

“First responder, remember? Just wanted to see how bad it is.” He presses the cloth gently but firmly back into place, and the sharp pain slowly ebbs into a dull throb. “S’not deep, you won’t need stitches.”

“Right.” She’d forgotten he was trained in first aid. His fingers are warm against her wrist, and his now familiar smell of cedar and snow has her head swimming. “I’m just going to get a bandage.”

A few minute later she emerges from the bathroom with her thumb freshly cleaned and bandaged, and finds Jon where she left him, julienning the mangoes. He looks up at the sound of her approach, and raises an eyebrow in inquiry.

She holds her tiny battle wound up in answer.

“All good.”

He nods, letting his head drop as he returns to his task. Sansa grabs the carrot she was peeling before the slip, and hopes her accident was enough of a distraction that Jon will forgot what they were talking about before it happened.

But no such luck.

“You, ah, didn’t answer me earlier. About whether you were upset with me.”

“Why would I be upset with you?” She asks, knowing it won’t work but trying to derail him anyways.

He pauses, glancing at her sideways.

“I’m not sure. But you’ve been…quiet. I just, I was wondering if I’d done something.”

She sighs. This is so supremely unfair to him but there’s a curl of resentment in her belly that refuses to go away.

“No,” she says instead. “You’ve been fine, Jon. I’m just tired, that’s all. I’ve been sort of burnt out with work under Daenerys, she’s running me ragged.” It’s not a lie really. The blonde has always been a demanding boss, but lately it’s been almost more than Sansa can handle. She doesn’t want to think that it’s Dany flexing her authority over her in some ridiculous claim on Jon, but she’s not sure what else to think. And that isn’t his fault, but the whole situation between the two of them makes her uncomfortable. She knows they’ve been texting, from the hints Dany has been dropping around the office, and what the violet eyed spitfire wants, she gets.

Which means it’s only a matter of time until she pursues something with Jon. And that thought has Sansa’s lip curling in irritation.

She doesn’t need the complication of her roommate dating her boss. It could be potentially messy, and Sansa has worked too hard to have her career tarnished because Jon can’t keep it in his pants. She knows he would never hurt her intentionally, but this…

Sansa doesn’t like it. If there are reasons for that beyond the political, she refuses to acknowledge them.

“Oh?” He frowns at the fruit in his hand, pushing a pile of mango rind to the corner of his cutting board.

“She didn’t mention it?” Sansa asks, before she can catch her tongue between her teeth to stop it. In her periphery, she sees his whole head swivel to look at her now.

“Ah, no. Is that what this is about, Sansa? Daenerys?”

Cursing her lack of self control, she bites her lip and shakes her head.

“No, course not. It’s none of my business. Can you pass me that?” She points to a bag of cilantro near his wrist and he hands it over.

“If it bothers you-”

Of _course_ it bothers her, she thinks, saying instead-

“It’s fine, Jon. Don’t worry about it. So, how did physio go this morning?” They haven’t been doing this, the small talk, but she's willing if it will save her from lying more about her aversion to Jon dating her boss, or, gods forbid, telling him the truth.

If she's learned anything in her time with him these past weeks, it's that he's actually too smart to fall for that. So when he accepts the change in topic, catching her up on his progress in monosyllables, she knows he's letting her off the hook.

Ironically, in gratitude at the gesture, she finds her lingering annoyance at him melt away.

* * *

 

It's nearly 6:45 by the time Sam and Gilly arrive, though they texted to let Sansa know they'd be late. They don't give a reason, but she suspects Gilly isn't feeling quite as recovered as they'd lead her to believe earlier, so she throws an extra pack of rolls in the oven and heats up a small pot of soup leftover from when Jon cooked the night before. She doesn't want the other woman to feel compelled to eat some of the curry just to be polite if she isn't feeling well.

They've both dressed quite casually, making Sansa suddenly feel out of place in her gray sheath dress, and Jon only makes it worse when he emerges from his room in jeans and a flannel.

Not that he doesn't look _good_ in the outfit. If she's being honest she finds this look a little too appealing on him, having to drag her eyes away with a reluctance she never felt with Joff, or any other man.

“Oh, Sansa. I'm so sorry we're late, but you look lovely!” Gilly pulls her into an unexpected hug, and Sansa notes that the brunette is a little clammy. The slight sheen on her forehead when they pull back just affirms her suspicion that the waitress is ill.

“It's fine, I was running late myself,” she lies, though thankful it gave her time to prepare something a little more soothing for Gilly. “That's a pretty top, where'd you get it?” Sam hands his coat off to Jon while the girls talk, and Gilly takes the compliment with a shrug.

“From Wal-Mart, I think. It's quite old.” Her blunt tone might have put Sansa off a few years ago, but now she just finds it refreshing.

“Alright, well, dinners ready for us. Oh,” as they make their way toward the dining room, Sansa makes a point of nodding toward the hall. “And the bathroom is just down there, if you need it.”

Instead of a polite acknowledgment, Gilly surprises Sansa again when she pauses mid step, turning to blink thoughtfully at her host. There's something in her big brown eyes, something guarded, that throws Sansa off balance.

“That smells amazing,” Sam says, coming up behind them and breaking the tension. “Did you make curry?”

“Uh, yes.” Sansa murmurs, making her way to the table with the pair at her heels, Jon behind them. “There's chicken soup, too. I realized I never asked if either of you liked curry, but-”

“I do,” Sam cuts her off, nodding enthusiastically, “-so long as it’s not _too_ hot.”

“And I’ve got an iron stomach,” Gilly says, though she pauses to frown and add “-usually, anyways.”

Not quite sure how to respond to that, Sansa quirks a tense smile. She offers them a drink but both of them politely decline, and she finds herself suddenly disappointed that she’s been raised to polite to drink in front of sober guests.

Ghost pads over to Gilly as they hover round the dining table, sniffing her before settling on the floor between her seat and Sansa’s. Jon acknowledges the movement by rolling his eyes.

“Ladies man, that one.” He says mostly to Sam, whose cheeks flush pink even as he chuckles.

“Well, you can hardly blame him,” Sam replies, earning a toothy grin from Gilly. Sansa is too distracted by the sweetness of their interaction to see Jon’s but when she turns back to him he’s wearing an unreadable expression.

“I-shall we?” She gestures at the table, frustrated by how unnatural it is to entertain in her own home now. She used to be good at this. Jon seems to sense it, and starts serving himself. As though without thinking he serves her too, even making sure to give her extra chunks of red pepper. It’s such a small thing, but Sansa can’t remember the last time someone did something like that, something that showed they pay attention.

For some reason the tiny gesture almost has her tearing up, and she has to fake a cough to cover it as she tries to suppress the random wave of emotion.

“So, Sam,” Sansa manages eventually, fingers curling around her glass of water. “How are the students?”

They make it mostly through dinner before Gilly stands up, so suddenly her chair wobbles on it’s back legs before righting. Sam frowns, hand reaching toward her, but Gilly shakes her head and flees down the hall to the bathroom before he can say anything.

Jon blinks, and Sam stands, looking torn between going after her and giving her privacy. Sansa holds up a hand when he moves to follow Gilly.

“I’ll go, Sam.” She says, biting her cheek when he can’t hide his relief.

“Thanks, Sansa. I’m just, I’m not good with vomit,” he says, looking a little green at the thought. “Sympathetic stomach and all.”

“It’s fine. I’ll be right back.” She ignores Jon’s questioning gaze and steps over Ghost on her way to the bathroom. The bathroom flushes just as she makes it to the door, and she knocks quietly, hearing Jon and Sam fall back into conversation in the dining room.

“Gilly? It’s Sansa. Do you need anything?” She doesn’t ask if the other woman is alright, since she’s obviously still feeling ill.

“I’m fine,” Gilly’s voice comes weakly through the door. “I mean, I’ll be fine in a few minutes. Thanks, though.”

Sansa hesitates. There’s something beyond fatigue in her tone that a recently buried part of her recognizes. Something distinctly at odds with the pleasant and open way Gilly had been before. Unsure as to why she feels the need to push, it’s probably just the flu after all, Sansa hovers outside the door.

“I know we don’t know each other very well,” she says slowly, “-but if you want to talk about it-“

The door flies open, and she takes a staggering step back in surprise. She nearly doesn’t recognize the woman standing in front of her, pale and sweaty, her usually round brown eyes narrowed in suspicion. Before she can get a word in, Gilly’s hand closes around her wrist, surprisingly strong, and she’s pulled into the bathroom.

“Wh-“ She blinks at Gilly as the door closes behind them.

“Does Sam know?” Gilly asks flatly, arms crossing over her chest. A lock of thin brown hair sticks to her temple, and it surprises Sansa how suddenly unwell she appears after looking relatively normal during dinner.

“Know what?” She asks blankly, wondering with a slight kick of dread whether something more serious than a flu virus might be wrong.

“You know,” Gilly says, gesturing down at her stomach impatiently. It takes a moment, but when it sinks Sansa’s mouth falls open.

“ _Oh_ ,” she says softly. “No, I-have you not told him?”

Gilly shakes her head.

“He’s been so good to me, you know?” She smiles then, looking again like the girl Sansa remembers from earlier in the week. “But this is too much, even for him. We’re not even together.“

Struggling to process, Sansa scrunches her eyes shut before opening them to peer curiously at Gilly.

“It’s really none of my business, but he obviously adores you,” she points out. Gilly blushes, but doesn’t deny it.

“He’s the nicest man I’ve ever met.”

“But…you don’t have those feelings for him?” Sansa asks, confused as to where the pregnancy fits into this dynamic.

“No, I-it’s not that.” Gilly sighs, sitting on the edge of the counter. “I’d have to tell him everything, with the…” She gestures again at her stomach. “Who’d want me like this?”

“It’s not Sam’s,” Sansa murmurs, mouth snapping shut when she realizes she’d had that revelation out loud. But Gilly doesn’t look offended, or defensive, just tired.

“Nah. And he’d want to know who’s it is, and I just-“ Something cold and dull slides behind her eyes, clouding them over, but then it’s gone. “I don’t want him to know.”

“Well,” Sansa says, leaning against the wall as she tries to quell the wave of emotion that swells as she considers that Gilly and her have more in common than previously thought. “You don’t have to tell him. You have a choice.”

A sharp look in her direction signals that Gilly knows what she means, and doesn’t think much of that idea at all.

“I’m not gonna get rid of it,” she says, almost defiantly. “I know maybe I should but I…I just can’t.”

Sansa nods, and the brunette softens.

“You know,” Sansa says quietly. “Sam _is_ going to notice eventually, then. And you don’t have to tell him any…details. But I have a feeling he’ll be hard to get rid of. He clearly cares about you a lot.”

Gilly frowns, working her bottom lip between her teeth. As though absentmindedly, her hand settles on her stomach, thumb tracing circles across the still loose fabric.

“How far along are you, if you don’t mind my asking?”

The crease between Gilly’s brows deepens.

“About 3 months, I think. I haven’t been to the doctor or anything.”

A knock on the door startles them both, and they turn toward Sam’s voice coming through the painted wood.

“Gilly? Are you alright?” The concern in his voice is apparent, and Sansa bites her lip as she glances at Gilly, who looks a little panicked.

“I’m fine, Sam. I’ll be out in a minute.” She calls, a little louder than necessary. On the other side of the door, Sam lets out a breath.

“Alright,” he says. Then, after a short pause, “-is Sansa in there with you?”

“Hi, Sam.” Sansa calls, not opening the door. “I’m just getting Gilly some mouthwash.”

It’s a lie, but Gilly offers her a grateful smile, and she doesn’t feel bad about it at all.

The sound of Sam’s footsteps slowly retreats, and the two woman stare at each other in silence.

“You’re not going to say anything?” Gilly asks, more a statement than a question. Sansa shakes her head.

“Like I said, it’s none of my business. And I don’t know Sam that well, but I think he’d be a friend, at least, if you told him.” She suspects he’d still be happy to be more, baby and all, but she doesn’t really know him well enough to say so.

Gilly chews on the corner of her mouth.

“He’s too nice for his own good,” she mutters, though fondly, seeming to be talking more to herself than Sansa. “If it was anyone else…he already hates Craster so much.”

“Your-” Sansa feels her face go cold, blood swirling in her ears. “Your stepfather, Craster?”

Shame flashes on the other woman’s face, gone in a flash, replaced with a challenge.

“What’s it to you?” She asks, a hint of steel beneath the words. Gods, Sansa recognizes herself in that stare. Her chest constricts with sorrow, for both of them, and she shakes her head.

“Nothing. Look, Gilly-” she hesitates for a moment, secrets straining against the chains she’s been keeping them in for so long. In the end, they hold. But she does the best she can. “I’d like for us to be friends. I don’t know much about children, but I’ve been told I’m a good listener. And…you might find I understand better than you think.”

The last sentence comes out strained, but Gilly seems to sense the sincerity in it, and her eyes narrow briefly before she nods, a tired smile appearing.

“Alright,” she says. “I’d like that. But we should probably go back before Sam sends Jon to kick the door down.”

Sansa smirks, reaching around her to pull the aforementioned mouthwash out from under the sink. 

“Ah, well. He’s worried. I’ll go tell them you’re feeling better. Sam’s going to want to take you home, you know.”

Gilly sighs as Sansa turns the doorknob.

“Yeah. Sorry about your dinner.”

Sansa just shrugs.

“I wanted to get to know you two better, and I feel like I have.”

That earns her another toothy grin, and she returns to the dining room with a heavy heart and a mind edged with old nightmares.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! I noticed a few people commenting that there was no Jon/Dany tag on this, and that was in an attempt to keep this fic from coming up when people are looking for that pairing specifically. But there will be some Jonerys as a plot device so I've added a tag that won't sort it as a Jon/Dany fic. Anyways, plot is actually on the way! These updates are kind of short but I'm just trying to keep myself updating so hopefully they will keep coming more regularly now.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's still with me!

“Are you sure you don’t want whole milk?” Sansa asks, standing on her toes to grab a carton of 2% before adding it to their cart.

Jon shakes his head, eyeing the yogurt display a few doors down.

“Nah, Rob dated some girl who would only drink 2%, and I ended up getting used to it. Seemed stupid to go back to something less healthy at that point.”

Sansa takes in that information with a raised eyebrow, watching him select a tub of blueberry yogurt from the fridge in front of them. They’d started doing the grocery shopping together after Sansa kept buying way more food than they need, worried that Jon would be too polite to ask for anything. Eventually he’d just decided that it was cheaper, and faster, if they wrote up a list and did the shopping as a pair.

It feels dangerously domestic, something that Sansa is decidedly not letting herself dwell on. An old woman smiles at them as they push past her, and Sansa can practically hear the words _what a lovely couple_ in that smile. But she just returns it politely, knowing Jon is oblivious.

“Do you like kiwis?” She asks, as they reach the produce. Being a typical man, Jon buys a lot of meat and carbs, and Sansa is trying to convince him to eat more fruit. A healthy diet can only help with his recovery, anyways.

He eyes the fuzzy brown fruit in her hand warily.

“I dunno. I’ve never had one.”

Sansa drops two of them into a plastic bag, placing it on top of his yogurt.

“Is that everything?” He asks, as she surveys the display of lemons beside them.

“Mmm.” She hums. “We need to stop by the pet store on the way home to get Ghost’s food, but that’s it.”

Her phone buzzes in her back pocket, and she lets Jon take over the cart as she checks it, following him to the checkout. It’s another text from Dany, asking her to stay late tomorrow night.

_Something has come up, and I need you in the office in case someone from the gaming grant office calls._

She sighs. It’s not that she has plans, but she was looking forward to finishing her proposals early and coming home to a quiet dinner with Jon.

“Everything alright?” He asks, glancing at her as he begins loading groceries onto the belt.

“It’s fine,” she says wearily. “Just Daenerys. She was supposed to be in the office tomorrow night to go over our application for a grant, but apparently now she needs me there.”

Jon freezes, gripping a bag of rice.

“What?” Sansa asks, confused.

“She asked you to cover for her tomorrow?” Something in his voice blooms a nervous feeling in her chest.

“Yes,” she says, eyes narrowing as she catches a glimpse of something like guilt flit across his dark features. “Why?”

He sighs, heavy and rough.

“I was…she asked me to get dinner with her. I didn’t know if it would be better to accept or turn her down, given your relationship with her, but she’s…”

“Very convincing.” Sansa finishes hollowly. “Yes, she is.” She doesn’t look at him as she turns to unload the last of their items and give the cashier a weak smile.

“But she shouldn’t have asked you to stay, that’s not fair.” From behind her, Jon sounds mildly upset and distinctly uncomfortable. Sansa is not feeling mildly anything. Instead, she pushes down the wave of disappointment rising like smoke inside her and shakes her head.

“It’s fine,” she tells him. And it almost sounds true. Sansa has, after all, had a lot of practice with these kind of lies. When she turns back to him, he’s frowning, shoulders high.

“I know she’s your boss, and I don’t want to do anything to, you know, make things harder for you.” The words come out in a rush, as though he’s been running over them in his head for days.

 _If that was true_ , Sansa thinks acidly, _you’d have brought this up before you accepted_. Aloud, she says “Don’t worry, Jon. I doubt it would have mattered what you said, anyway.”

His brows draw further down, the scar over his right eye shining silver.

“What Daenerys wants, Daenerys gets,” she clarifies. The cashier’s voice calls her attention, asking something about a points card, and neither of them bring it up again on the ride home. What she doesn’t add is that apparently what Dany wants now is Jon.

At home, Jon takes the elevator all the way up with the groceries, while Sansa stops at the lobby to get the mail from Rodrick.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Stark,” The white haired doorman greets her with a nod.

“Afternoon, Rodrick,” she says absently, accepting a small stack of letters and magazines without even scanning them. It isn’t until she drops her keys on the counter, back up in the penthouse, that she begins to look them over.

 _Bills_ , she notes, sorting them into piles, along with a few handwritten invitations and the usual junk mail. She’s about to throw the latter into the recycling, when Jon leans down, straightening up to hand her what looks like a brochure.

“Think you dropped that one,” he says, and she takes it without meeting his eyes. If he notices, he doesn’t comment. Then her gaze falls on the words written in white script across the glossy front of the page.

And her heart stutters, then drops to the bottom of her stomach.

 _No_.

She doesn’t realize she’s crushed the brochure in her fist until Jon appears next to her, prying it out of her fingers and asking if she’s alright.

“I’m fine,” she reaches out to swat him away, but her knees have gone numb and she ends up clutching at him for support instead. “I just-“

He guides her to the couch before she can finish her sentence, kneeling in front of her with concern written all over his face.

“Should I-” he glances at the crumpled document in his hand. “D’you want me to throw this out?” He’s obviously confused, but seems to know better than to ask why she’s so upset.

Sansa shakes her head.

“No, I-” she clears her throat. “I need it.”

For evidence. Gods, she needs to call Petyr.

Taking a deep breath, she pushes back to her feet. Jon hands the brochure back to her, silent. He must think she’s having some sort of meltdown, and while he wouldn’t be wrong she can’t exactly tell him why she’s gotten so upset over a hotel pamphlet.

“I’ve got the groceries,” he says, after a moment. Sansa nods jerkily.

“Thank you. I have to make a phone call.”

She all but flees to her bedroom, throwing the shower on to muffle the call so Jon won’t overhear. Not that he’d be listening on purpose, but old habits die hard.

She settles on the floor, staring at the photo on the page as her phone rings against her ear.

Petyr picks up after three rings. Long enough so that she knows he doesn’t wait by the phone, but not so long that she might decide to hang up. Sansa learned early on that every action on his part is calculated.

“Sansa?”

She hates his voice. It crawls over her like slime, making her feel dirty just for hearing it.

“Petyr. You were supposed to take care of this.” Her voice snaps, steely though she feels anything but. With Petyr, she can’t give any ground, can’t let him see how much she needs him. She’s not sure she could afford his protection then.

“I have,” he sounds surprised. Without being able to see his face, it’s that much harder to tell whether his words are sincere. By default, she suspects not. “Why, has something happened?”

“I got a brochure, today,” she bites. “From the Heathley Hotel.”

The line goes quiet.

“Where-“

“It was in my mail,” she murmurs. “And there was no postage on it. Which means-“

“It was delivered by hand. Yes, that’s troubling,” he muses. Sansa swallows a laugh, and it burns her throat.

“That’s one way to put it. You assured me you would handle this, but this doesn’t seem _handled_ ,” Sansa says carefully. “We knew that if you started digging it would put a target on my back, but you were certain you could be discrete. Obviously, someone knows I’m looking into Ramsey’s past.”

“Sansa,” Petyr’s voice is soft, and she can feel it like a warm breath on the back of her neck. She shivers. “Your safety is my top priority. However, if the Boltons are showing interest in you again, we can’t be sure this is why.” Sansa opens her mouth to snarl something about _coincidence_ but he continues before she gets the chance. “In any case, I will look into it. In the meantime, you shouldn’t be alone. If you need a safe place to stay, my home is-”

“I’m not alone,” Sansa says, shaking her head despite knowing he can’t see her. “And that’s all the more reason this can’t happen. If my…houseguest finds out anything, he’ll tell my family. And that _cannot_ happen.”

Baelish pauses.

“I’d heard you had a guest staying with you, but didn’t realize they would be staying so long.” And if the clipped way he says _guest_ is any indication, he isn’t pleased to find out.

“He’s a family friend,” she mutters, pressing her fingers almost painfully against her eyelids. A headache is beginning to form just behind them. “A friend of Robb’s. I can’t have him asking questions. If any of this gets back to him he’ll feel obligated to tell my brother.” The thought has her clutching the phone a little tighter, nails digging into the hard plastic case. Robb’s horrified face flashes in her mind, joined shortly by that of her mother, and her father, all three pinched in pity and disgust.

“I understand,” Petyr’s voice rips her out of the painted nightmare. “Sansa, I promise, I will take care of this. If you feel safe with your guest in the meantime, you may stay put, but I would feel better if-”

“I’m not going into hiding,” Sansa snaps. “We’ve already had this conversation. What was the point of coming out with my life if I’m not going to live it at all?”

There were days she didn’t want to, even after all this time they still greet her now and then, a cold weight in the morning. A memory surfaces, one she’s long tried to forget.

_“Ah, now, I’ve told you not to do that,” Ramsey says with a wide smile, teeth stained red from where she’d knocked her forehead against them. “And I’d hate to break such a pretty toy.”_

_Sansa stares back at him, hatred seeping from every pore. She’s nearly stuck to the sheets with her own blood, her hands have gone numb from the rope chafing against her wrists and there isn’t a part of her that doesn’t ache or sting or burn. Something snaps inside her, a tether gone too taut. She lifts her chin, as much as she can, thinking of Catelyn’s grace and Ned’s strength and Arya’s fire. Those things live in her too, if only for a few more moments._

_“If I’m going to die,” she says slowly, meaning every word, “then let it happen while there is still some of me left.”_

He hadn’t killed her then. But she suspects there will always be moments when she wishes that he had.

“I admire your bravery,” Petyr says with a sigh. “Ill-advised though it may be. I will call you when I know more, to set up an appointment.’

“Fine,” she agrees, hanging up without a thank you or a goodbye. She looks back down at the nearly ruined brochure in her lap, trying not to remember. Her prison for nine days, her personal hell, with 1200 thread count satin sheets.

* * *

 

Sansa gets home before Jon on Friday. She tries not to think about the fact that it’s 11pm and he still isn’t back.

She fails.

Ghost follows her to the couch, where she settles with a glass of wine and a tub of low fat frozen yogurt. He glances at the spot next to her, and she raises an eyebrow. So far, she and Jon have agreed not to let him on the furniture, with the bed as an exception. Now, his smart red eyes seem to be asking permission.

“Ah, hell.” She pats the cushion beside her, and laughs as the couch sinks beneath the wolf’s not insignificant weight. “Jon is going to kill me,” she tells him, softening when he lays his huge fluffy head in her lap. He lets out a startlingly human sigh, and she begins to card her fingers through his fur. Thoughts of Jon and Dany don’t abandon her entirely, but with Ghost under her fingers the pace of her thoughts slows a little.

She’s still like that, half dozing with some home renovation show turned low on the TV, when the latch of the front door startles her awake. She blinks, craning her neck enough to catch Jon slinking in without displacing Ghost from her thighs. When he looks up to meet her eyes, his lips part in surprise.

“Did you wait up for me?” He asks, and Sansa is suddenly glad she’d turned the lights down so far so he can’t see her blush.

“No,” _not intentionally_ , she thinks. “I must have just fallen asleep. What time is it?”

He pulls out his phone, the light of it obnoxious in the comfortably dim living room.

“Just twelve,” he says. Without meaning to, her gaze sweeps over him, taking in his outfit. He’s in a pair of black jeans she hasn’t see before, and one of his many plaid flannels thrown over a white t-shirt. It’s not exactly what she’d expect someone to wear on a date with Daenerys, but she finds it steadying that Jon will be Jon, no matter who he’s going out with. It’s a look he wears well, anyway.

“Did you have a good time?”

He doesn’t make a move to turn on the overhead light, fiddling with the keys still in his hand.

“Was alright. Not really my scene, you know.” He shrugs noncommittally.

Sansa doesn’t even know where they went, but she can imagine. Danaerys doesn’t have boyfriends so much as she has lovers, the kind you flaunt like jewelry. Other women have described her lack of subtlety as tasteless, but Sansa can understand the notion that if men can do it so can women. Dany is a powerful woman, having shed the _need_ for a man long ago. If anything, Sansa thinks she gets off on wielding that over them.

And if anyone in the world can understand that, it’s her. Even if it’s not her style to do the same.

But Jon is…she shifts a little on the sofa, eliciting a soft whine from Ghost. He’s worth more than that. He’s a good man, and she’s not sure Dany is even capable of appreciating that anymore.

Eyes a little sharper, Sansa considers the expression on Jon’s face. It’s hard to tell, with the way the shadows are falling across the strong planes of his face, but she thinks he looks more tired than anything else.

“Danaerys likes a show, wherever she is and whoever she’s with,” she murmurs, frowning when Jon coughs on something that sounds like a laugh. He makes his way slowly out of the entryway, dropping his keys on the counter and tilting his head to study Ghost’s place on her lap.

“I wouldn’t have described her as a drama queen,” he says, folding his arms across his chest, still frowning at Ghost’s snoring form.

“Not drama,” Sansa corrects, rubbing a thumb across the velvet of Ghost’s ear. “It’s political more than anything. Do you think you’ll see her again?”

At that, he looks up. It annoys her how difficult he is to read some days. There isn’t much in the straight set of his face to give him away.

In the end, he just shrugs again, and when he speaks it’s clear he’s changing the subject. She lets him, though her curiosity feels heavier than it should against her ribs.

“How’d he weasel his way up onto the couch?” Jon asks, nodding at the 150-odd pounds of wolf laying across her thighs like a lap dog. Her lips quirk into a half smile, and she scratches affectionately at the scruff of his neck.

“I’m just a pushover, I suppose.” It’s far from the truth, but she’d rather take on Roe again than admit to Jon that she’d been lonely and sad in his absence. She slides as smoothly as she can out from under Ghost, and gets to her feet. “I should get to bed, I didn’t mean to stay up so long.”

He steps back and out of her way, but not quite quickly enough. The wine she had earlier hits her like gravity now that she’s vertical, and she stumbles into his chest. His hands come up to catch her, one at her waist and the other on her shoulder, and they’re so close Sansa can feel his breath against her temple. Ever the gentleman, he rights her and then pulls his hands away.

In a haze of alcohol and fatigue, Sansa finds herself wondering what it might be like if he wasn’t such a gentleman for once. If his hands, strong and faintly scarred, did something other than barely clasp at her skin as though she might break at his touch. The idea has something hot and heady spooling in her stomach and she sways a little at an image of his ludicrously pouty lips soft against her neck.

“Sansa?”

His voice startles her out of her reverie and she stumbles back so suddenly that she almost trips on the rug as it bunches under her feet.

“I’m-” She holds out a hand, more to keep him at arms length than to reassure him she’s alright. “Just a little lightheaded. I think I stood up too quickly.”

Before he close the distance between them, she throws out a goodnight and all but flees down the hallway to her bedroom. The door closes, a soft click that has the tension in her shoulders easing just a little, and she flops down on her bed roughly enough to make her head begin to spin. Without bothering to undress, or turn on the light, she lays across the duvet and claps her hands to her face in frustration.

After Joffrey she’d promised herself to never again get caught up in dreams or feelings when it came to a man. After Ramsey she’d decided to avoid them altogether. It might be lonely but the alternative is something she has no desire to relive. Romance is blinding, it makes her vulnerable, and Sansa is no longer capable of the kind of trust it takes to have a relationship anyways.

So what exactly was _that_?


End file.
